Transitions (second season: episode 3)
by Aliana
Summary: Change is inevitable . . .
1. Prologue and Chapter One

  
  
  
From Aliana's second season: Episode 3 (a multi-part episode!)  
TRANSITIONS  
  
A Battlestar Galactica story   
by Aliana  
  
Started in March, 2000  
  
Based on the characters created by Glen A. Larson  
  
From the Adama Journals:  
  
One secton from now, we will mark the first anniversary of the destruction of the Twelve Colonies by the Cylons. At that horrible moment, when we let our guard down only briefly in the vain hope for peace . . . peace after a thousand yahrens of war . . .twelve worlds, twelve civilizations, twelve cultures both unique and intricately intertwined, were reduced to a rag-tag Fleet of nearly 220 space-bound ships. My mind and my heart still go numb when I think about what we once were . . . and what is left of a race of billions of human beings. . . We must keep looking forward, onward . . .have faith that we will find our brothers of the Thirteenth Tribe. My heart and faith tell me that we can succeed. Our glimmering ray of sunlight after the horrendous, destructive tempest . . . is Earth.  
  
It has been one and a half sectars since our victory against the lone basestar. My emphatic hope is that it will be our last encounter with the Cylons. We can only guess, but I feel that the basestar was part of a widely scattered, outer-perimeter defense. That it was purely chance that our paths crossed. That it was alone, and that we destroyed it before it could send any signals back to the Cylon Empire. Even if it did, I pray that we were so far from our old system that it would take sectons, or even sectars, for the signal to be received by anyone. We have no way of knowing for certain and can only hope that the Lords of Kobol have guided us to freedom from our enemy. For now, we must continue on and put as much distance between ourselves and the location of our last encounter with the Cylons. It is too soon to let down our guard or to become complacent.  
  
Fuel-wise, our condition is stable, for now. We have a sufficient supply from the very successful mining expedition of the asteroid field we encountered only a secton after the defeat of the basestar. With careful conservation, we should have enough to last for at least three sectars. We are, of course, constantly searching for more resources.  
  
Unfortunately, I fear that we face a new and dangerous foe - ourselves. We have been fleeing for nearly a yahren now - nearly a yahren of being confined to what at times seem like prison cells to us all. Nearly a yahren of living in cramped quarters, enduring food shortages and fuel crises. For most of our journey, the constant threat from the Cylons kept us united and gave us a reason to fight for our survival. But now . . . as the threat seems to grow distant, I fear our unity is starting to weaken, to crumble bit by bit.  
  
In the past three sectons alone, we have faced an attempted mutiny, strict food rationing following a near-disaster on one of the agro ships, a riot aboard the passenger ship, Sagittarius, and an attempted mass-suicide. Both the riot and the suicide attempt were led by a mentally ill man, who, under other circumstances, would have been receiving the proper treatment and probably would not have been a threat to anyone. That he could so easily find people to join his *Il Fadim* group and so easily ignite the fears that led to the riot illustrates how desperate people are becoming and how fragile is the resolve of some. We cannot let our human frailties be our downfall. We must do all that we can to preserve our unity and the will to survive, to persevere, and to continue onward.  
  
In light of all this, I have started an all-out campaign to strengthen our unity as a Fleet, and to let every citizen know and believe that he or she is valued and has a voice. Amazingly, the Council of Twelve, led by Siress Tinia, has for once agreed with me. We feel that the people need more than just the representation based off of the former homeworlds, that they need more opportunities to be heard. Each ship is in the process of choosing a representative to act as a spokesperson, a representative, who can bring any concerns to the attention of the Council or even myself. The goal is more open communication throughout the Fleet so that the problems that in the past were left to fester unattended will be dealt with. Of course, we have the potential for ending up with an inefficient string of bureaucracy. May the Lords of Kobol guide us away from that!  
  
We have also doubled our efforts to help the less fortunate among the Fleet, to act as an extended family, to encourage all to give what they can. And that especially includes the efforts from all of our artisans, musicians, athletes, and other creative souls. We need them to help boost our morale, to feed our hope and nourish our spirits. As we approach the end of this latest forced-rationing, I am hoping that the upcoming triad demonstrations and clinic for the children of the orphan ship will be a first step in overcoming our latest struggles. . .  
  
We *must* pull together. We *must* persevere . . . to have our civilization crumbled to pieces by our own hand would be far more tragic than the holocaust that we endured the previous yahren . . .  
  
CHAPTER ONE  
Lieutenant Starbuck sat on the edge of his bunk, feeling uncharacteristically pensive. His flight jacket lay across his lap and he gazed absently at the chronometer that was perched on the stand beside his bed. A sigh escaped slowly as he ran a hand through his feathered, light-brown hair. He closed his blue eyes and straightened his spine when he felt the all-too-familiar tightness building in the still-healing muscles and tissues in the middle of his back. With another extended breath, he slowly lifted his shoulders, then let them roll back and down again, feeling the tension ease. With his back still erect but relaxed, he felt the impending cramp abate, thwarted. He sat still and opened his eyes. He was alone in Blue Squadron's billet. All others were either on duty or off at morning nutrition break. He was still on medical leave, which meant too little to do and too much time to fill. And too much time to think.   
  
Hands still resting on his knees, not yet ready to move, Starbuck absently rolled an unlit fumarello between his fingers as his mind drifted back over the recent events. For him, the past three sectons had been deeply personal. And he was not sure anymore whether the infamous "Starbuck luck" was a blessing or a curse. In the first case, he had stumbled onto a plot by the captain of the Zodia, one of the ships used for vehicle maintenance, a plot to hoard supplies so that a group of twelve dissidents could break from the Fleet to settle on an inhabitable planet. Using Captain Connly's considerable computer skills, they had altered records for the Zodia and another small ship, the Leonis, to receive almost twice the allotment of food and other supplies. Through his own curiosity and impulsiveness, Starbuck had found himself in the middle of it all, and had come within microns of a laser blast to the head. It was Captain Apollo and Lieutenant Boomer's persistence, investigative skills, and unwavering faith in their friend that had thwarted the plot. Yet he had to wonder what would have happened had he not discovered that Connly and his small group had altered the computer records before they attempted to break from the Fleet. The "Starbuck luck." His purely coincidental discovery had kept 70 civilians and crew members from being taken as hostages, essentially, had Connly and the captain of the Leonis actually succeeded in absconding aboard the Leonis. And where would they have gone? Their destination and goal had been a recently explored planet with a less-than-hospitable environment. Not anyone's idea of a dream world.  
  
Glancing back at the chronometer, the lieutenant realized that Boomer and Apollo would probably be in the launch bay right about now, going through the pre-flight check as they prepared for the next long-range patrol. His patrol. Boomer was temporarily assigned as the captain's wingman. Starbuck curled his lip in a slight grin as he mused that even sitting for centars in a viper with the steady whine of the engines in his ears, broken only by the casual conversation with a buddy, would be greatly preferable to this. His two friends, however, he figured, were probably glad to have him immobilized and out of trouble, at least for a while. Even Starbuck was not sure how he had managed to end up in two life-threatening situations in less than a secton, in a time when the Cylons were possibly lost for good and life in the Fleet should have been settling down, tensions easing up. Spirits lifting. Should have been . . .  
  
In the two days following the Zodia episode, Starbuck had been caught up in the ensuing tribunal and sentencing of the twelve mutineers. The three most deeply involved had been sentenced to the Prison Barge. To avoid a demoralizing effect on the Fleet, however, the remaining nine had been given strict probationary terms and reassigned to different positions in the Fleet. The overseers had tried to balance the need for stern justice with the realization that many shared some of the same feelings of weariness and frustration that had led to the plot in the first place. In the last centars of the tribunal, when Connly had been given the harshest sentence of all for attempted termination, along with all of the other charges, Starbuck had stared into the vacant eyes of a man who had once been as loyal and as devoted to the survival of the Fleet as any warrior. The look on Connly's face had been haunting, disturbing.  
  
And then, only three days later, with the people still coming to terms with what had just happened, a critical breakdown on one of the agro ships had caused the loss of a third of its harvest. Until the crops on the other two agro ships were ready to be harvested, the Fleet had been forced to implement strict rationing of the remaining food reserves. To placate the fears and concerns of the people, Adama had sent teams of warriors to the ships to listen to all citizens, to let them vent their frustrations. Unfortunately, this had been when the "Starbuck luck" had taken a decidedly unlucky turn.  
  
Starbuck absently chewed the unlit fumarello, fingering it, as a face invaded his thoughts. Sherok. The man was a paranoid-schizophrenic who had not received his medication for sectars and had led a fanatical group called the *Il Fadim*, Sagittaria for the "Chosen Ones," aboard the passenger ship Sagittarius. His rantings that the commander was concealing a larger disaster had incited a riot at the time Apollo, Boomer, and Starbuck were to meet with the people in the ship's landing bay. Starbuck had been caught in the middle of the chaos and had been badly injured. He had been dumped and left for dead in an internal maintenance passage of the Sagittarius. His savior had been another resident of the Sagittarius, Copernicus, a man with a neurological disability. This strange man who lived mainly in his own world and felt overwhelmed by others had rescued him not once, but twice. First, Copernicus had found the him lying unconscious in the corridor, had taken him into the shelter that passed as a home for the man, and had gone for help. Then, when Sherok and his followers had discovered Starbuck before help could arrive and had decided to include him in their twisted plan to commit mass suicide, Copernicus had saved him yet again.  
  
That had been just over a ten days ago. Starbuck stood slowly, gripped the fumarello with his teeth to free his hands, and carefully slipped on his flight jacket, easing it over his shoulders with slow, cautious movements. He had suffered a moderate concussion and a severe back injury and had spent three days confined to the lifestation. While most of the damage had been repaired, and special enzyme and biomedical therapy had accelerated the healing process, his muscles were still quite sensitive and prone to cramping with sudden movements. Doctor Salik had said that it would take three to five sectons for everything to heal, and probably longer, even with the physical therapy, before he felt as strong as before. A secton after being released from the lifestation, slow, steady movements had become a habit.  
  
Starbuck ran the hand through his hair again and stifled the yawn he felt. Most of the time, barring sudden movements, he felt little pain, but sleeping had become difficult, and not only because of the effort of finding a comfortable position. Almost every night since the ordeal on the Sagittarius, it seemed, he had experienced nightmares. The dreams were always variations of being trapped and totally helpless, unable to move, paralyzed in the face of imminent death. A complete loss of control. Sometimes Sherok was a part of the dreams, sometimes not. The frustrating part was that, when awake, the episode truly did not bother him that much; after all, he had been in life-and-death situations more times that he cared to count. He had been captured twice by the Cylons, had been in innumerable battles, and had even walked right into the heart of a Cylon basestar. As a Colonial warrior, facing death came with the territory. He was more troubled by the fact that he was having the dreams, not by the dreams themselves, he told himself. For some reason, his subconscious did not seem to want to let go of that one moment ten days ago. After experiencing the dreams while still in the lifestation, Doctor Salik had offered medication to help him sleep, but Starbuck did not want to rely on chemicals to resolve his problems. Even with the pain, he used the analgesics and muscle relaxants only when absolutely necessary. He did not need more drugs to put his mind at peace.   
  
And since it seemed so illogical to him that he would be having these dreams at all, he did not talk about them, once he had been released from the lifestation. Not even to Cassiopeia. They were a tiresome annoyance, that was all, since combined with sore muscles, they made getting a good night's sleep a challenge. Starbuck's fingers, in a subconscious habit, searched for his holster as he recalled a conversation with Cassie, when she had asked why he was so tired. With no laser needed since he was on leave, Starbuck instead gripped the bottom of his flight jacket, fingering the bottom fastener to busy his hands as he remembered. . .   
  
. . .Cassie disappeared into the tiny room that served as a kitchen/pantry area for her roommate and her, saying, "Sit tight! I'll be right back!"  
  
Assuming the most comfortable position for sitting, Starbuck sat straight against the back of the chair that Cassie had pulled away from the small, shared desk. Once more, he noted briefly how small the room was for two people: two areas, a "kitchen" with barely enough space for one person, and the main area with bunk beds, desk, a couple of shelves, two narrow closets, a compact, handmade armchair with an end table, and a dining table that was barely larger than the desk, along with two more chairs. Fortunately for Cassie and her roommate, a med tech also, they worked opposing shifts, so they did not spend much time jostling around each other in the tiny space. Very few individuals, usually only commanders and the captains of other ships, were afforded the luxury of private, single accommodations. Occasionally, the privacy offered to married couples sent tempting thoughts through Starbuck's mind . . . if Cassie were less straightforward, having her shift switched to where they had no time alone might even be enough . . . Starbuck quickly banished that errant thought. . .  
  
"Hey, hotshot," Cassie's voice broke the silence. "You can't go to sleep without sampling our evening feast."  
  
Starbuck ran a hand over his face, realizing that he had indeed drifted off. He groaned at the thought of yet another meal of rations - carbohydrate bars, protein cubes, and high-nutrient discs - as if varying the shape made the mud-colored, bland emergency-issued provisions any more palatable. Starbuck opened his eyes finally to see Cassie standing in front of him holding a plate with a double portion of the rations. His gaze, however, slid past the meal to the delicate, pale blue fabric behind it, a sleeveless, flowing nightgown that wrapped around her body, accentuating the barely concealed curves beneath, ending midthigh to reveal scrumptiously posed legs. As his gaze flowed down to the perfectly etched ankles and slender feet, Starbuck whispered, "I'm awake now!"  
  
With the grace of a dancer, Cassie moved around and behind the lieutenant, caressing his neck with her free hand. Leaning close, she draped her arms around his shoulders, plate in one hand, the other teasing his hair. She ran a finger down his cheek, then plucked a protein cube from the plate. Nestling her lips near his earlobe, she offered him the ration.   
  
Despite everything, Starbuck could not stop the yawn that crept out as he took the ration. Cassie moved around to look him in the eyes. "Hey," she said gently, "are you still having that much trouble sleeping?"  
  
Starbuck shifted his gaze as he answered, "you know - every time I roll over in the middle of the night I hear from a million sore little muscles that I never knew I had. And not to mention how hard and lumpy those Fleet-issued mattresses are!"  
  
He looked back to see her bite her upper lip in thought. "Look," she said quietly, "why don't I ask Dr. Salik for a sleep-aid - just to get you a couple good nights of sleep. You look so tired."  
  
Before he could stop himself, Starbuck snapped, "I don't need any of that felgercarb to help me sleep! I'm fine!"  
  
Cassie raised an eyebrow. "Listen to yourself," she said softly.   
Starbuck took a deep breath. "Cass . . . I'm sorry. You're right. I've not been sleeping well. But I'm just not ready to rely on chemicals . . . it must be the ingrained warrior instincts for always being alert. The thought of being basically knocked out . . . I'm not ready for that." He gave her a steady look this time.  
  
Cassie chewed for a moment on her lip, looking as if she were about to say something else, but she did not. Instead, she put the plate down and gently grasped his hands, guiding him carefully up and out of the chair. She led him the short distance to the beds and eased him down onto the edge of her lower bunk. Still angry with himself for the outburst, Starbuck said nothing, but managed a weak smile as she lightly kissed his nose, then helped him to lie on his side with his back to her. Adding pillows for support, she sat on the edge and began a slow, soothing, circular massage at the base of his skull, gradually working her way down his neck to his shoulders. Even through the uniform, the gentle but firm kneading was so calming, so relaxing . . .  
  
Starbuck brought his mind back to the present. A glance at the chronometer showed him that he still had about ten centons before he needed to leave. He was meeting someone . . . He smiled at the memory of that night as he sat back down on his bunk. For the first time in a while, he had awaken the next morning without remembering any dreams. And since then, Cassie had not pressed the issue. Instead, she had shown him how to use pillows and blankets for support and had taught him a couple of deep-breathing, relaxation techniques that seemed to help. Not for the first time, Starbuck felt a deep affection for, and maybe even connection with, the intelligent, fair-haired Gemonese who had entered his life during the turmoil of those first days after the holocaust. She was the first woman he had known who gave him his space and very seldom pressured him to do anything. Occasionally, lately, he had let his mind consider something more permanent. . .   
  
Ten centons had nearly passed, and Starbuck stood slowly again. Almost time to meet with Tarnia and Copernicus. It would be their second meeting; three days ago, he had gone to the Sagittarius. Since his memories of the actual incident there had been shrouded by being semiconscious and in pain much of the time, he had hoped that returning to the ship to traverse the dark corridors of the nightmares and to meet with Copernicus would help vanquish the dreams. He had gone alone for several reasons, mainly because too many people visiting Copernicus would have been stressful for the man, but also because he wanted to face the setting of his ordeal on his own terms. Before meeting with Copernicus' friend and aide, Tarnia, Starbuck had visited the location of his confrontation with Sherok, spending at least thirty centons gazing at the walls and floor of the dark, deserted maintenance area and letting his mind freely relive and explore all of the memories. So far, three days later, the dreams continued.  
  
Ah, well, Starbuck sighed. It was time to go, and he had had enough reflection for now; he needed to shake off the pensive mood. After all, Apollo was supposed to be the serious one. Give it more time, Bucko, just a little more time . . .  
  
Discarding the now well-chewed fumarello, Starbuck decided that it was time to head out for his meeting with Copernicus, who was supposed to have transferred the previous day to the Galactica. This was part of a plan to repay the man for all that he had done. Starbuck had learned from Tarnia that Copernicus was a genius with electronics and gadgets, that he had an incredible mind for mathematics, science, and computers. Living with a neurological disorder that scrambled his ability to process all of the sensory input his brain received had prevented him from developing or fully utilizing his capabilities. He had difficulties communicating, understanding social intricacies, and could be very obsessive with everything from his daily routines to his interests. To deal with the overload of stimuli that bombarded his senses, he often withdrew into his own internal world. To be comfortable and able to deal with the outside world, he needed stability, structure, and familiarity. To an uninformed person he might seem eccentric, mentally deficient, or just downright weird.  
  
Starbuck, after learning how much Copernicus had done for him, had had several long talks with Tarnia, who was Copernicus' lifeline, his support, and his fervent advocate. He had also done some of his own research in the Galactica's library files about Copernicus' condition. Armed with his new knowledge and understanding, and impressed with Tarnia's own abilities as a caregiver and counselor, Starbuck had gone to the commander.   
  
Standing erect more for comfort than as a formal pose, Starbuck had stood in front of Adama's desk after handing him the data pad and stated, "Sir, I'd like for you to consider transferring Copernicus and Tarnia here to the Galactica." He then described his reasoning in detail, including everything he had listed on the data pad, and more: how Tarnia could be an invaluable addition to the lifestation team, and Copernicus . . . well, he deserved the chance to learn how to realize his potential. Working in Dr. Wilker's research lab seemed to Starbuck to be the perfect place for him. By the end, his voice had taken on a passionate tone that, as he finished, he realized may not have been the appropriate way of addressing the commander. Fidgeting slightly, he added, "Uh, that's all, Sir."  
  
Adama, impassive as always when in the role of decision maker, read through the pad silently, giving no indications of his thoughts one way or the other. Finally, Adama had looked up at the lieutenant, a raised eyebrow his only reaction, and said, "I assume you have discussed this with both Tarnia and Copernicus?"  
  
Starbuck nodded, nervous despite the familiarity he that knew existed between them. Even with his own children, Athena and Apollo, Adama assumed the role of commander and impartial leader when on duty or when necessary. Even though he regarded the lieutenant as almost an adopted son, he would never let emotions color any decision that affected the functioning of the Galactica.  
  
Adama said, "We'll have to request a position for Tarnia in the lifestation."  
  
"Already arranged," Starbuck said, adding, "assuming that you approve it, sir."  
  
Adama continued, giving the lieutenant another impassive look, "And what about Copernicus?"  
  
"Sir, I've spoken with Dr. Wilker. He said that he is always willing to add to his team. Apparently, he's having trouble with a project, so he seemed open to adding a fresh perspective."  
  
Adama let one corner of his mouth creep up a milimetron. "And what about living quarters?"  
  
Starbuck shifted slightly. "Well, actually . . . I'm working on that."  
  
Adama had stood to come around from behind his desk, closing the distance between them and had put a hand on his shoulder, putting the commander role for aside a moment. "Starbuck, I can see that this is very important to you, and you've already put a lot of thought and effort into this. . ."   
  
To his delight, the commander had approved an immediate transfer for Copernicus and Tarnia, dependent upon the availability of living quarters. With nothing else to do, Starbuck had used his creative talents to locate a place for Tarnia and a suitable location for Copernicus. Tarnia would share a room with two med techs, and Copernicus would be permitted to convert a storage room that was conveniently situated close to Dr. Wilker's lab. Starbuck figured that, with Boomer's help with some of the details, they could easily modify the small room to be a habitation, since he knew that Copernicus required little in the way of personal furnishings. In his sparse "residence" on the Sagittarius, he had had only a makeshift bed, a crate, and an extensive supply of electronics and equipment.  
  
Thus, Tarnia and Copernicus had been scheduled to make the transfer from the Sagittarius to the Galactica just the previous day. Due to a physical therapy appointment and a mandatory briefing, Starbuck had not been able to see either or to assist with the move, as he had hoped. Starbuck had seriously considered missing the therapy appointment, but he had already "forgotten" two others previously. And Cassie had given him an ultimatum: be there, or she would have Dr. Salik confine him to the Life Station for one day to complete all of his missed sessions. "Remember," she had told him, serious, brows creased, "if you don't follow through on these sessions, you can't be cleared to return to duty." Starbuck had given his word that he would be there; he knew that Cassie was not bluffing.  
  
This morning, though, he had arranged to help get the two settled, work on Copernicus' quarters, and familiarize them both with the workings of the Galactica. Starbuck knew that this was a huge step for Copernicus and not an easy one. For this to work, the man would need his support, as well, and he was ready to offer all that he could. He owed him that much. Starbuck still had two days, at least, on medical leave, and then he would be returned to light duty only; thus, he had the time to offer to Tarnia and Copernicus.  
  
Starbuck was deep in these thoughts when he pressed the release to the squadron's exit. The door swooshed open. He crossed the threshold, his mind elsewhere, and nearly collided with Dr. Wilker. Starbuck froze, taking a deep breath to remain steady and not trigger any cramps. The scientist took a quick step backwards, pointed an accusing finger at him, and said, "I want a word with you, Lieutenant."  
  
Starbuck instantly noted Dr. Wilker's furrowed brow and tight, thin lips. "Sure," he said calmly. "What can I do for you, Doctor?" He knew, however, what the scientist wanted, and he knew why. In his eagerness to help Copernicus, Starbuck had glossed over the details when first speaking with Dr. Wilker. In a flash of clarity, he realized that he had gone into his "persuasive mode" without thinking ahead and had simply represented Copernicus as a near-genius at electronics and inventing, leaving out some very important information. Obviously, Tarnia and Copernicus had visited Dr. Wilker during the previous day, and the scientist had seen a vastly different image than the one Starbuck had presented.  
  
"Just what are you trying to pull, Lieutenant?" the scientist asked, stressing every other word as he spoke and jabbing the air with his hands. The only other time Starbuck had seen the doctor this flustered was when his lab was destroyed by the Cylons in their last encounter with the lone basestar.   
  
Starbuck kept his face calm and puzzled. "I don't follow you, Doctor. Could you please explain?"  
  
"You told me that that new man, Copernicus, was an electronics whiz!" Wilker paused to catch his breath. "You can't be serious! He came by the lab yesterday - he's - he's - he's a nut!"  
  
Starbuck had enough experience now with Copernicus to imagine how the encounter must have gone. In a new environment, he would have totally tuned out Dr. Wilker, needing instead to focus his energy on making sense of the unfamiliar surroundings. Starbuck could picture Copernicus rambling on to himself and wandering aimlessly through the lab as the scientist followed him around asking a multitude of unanswered questions. It was apparent that either Tarnia had not had time to explain the situation, or that Wilker had not understood her. Probably a little of both.  
  
The lieutenant met Dr. Wilker's gaze and stated evenly, "He's different. And, no, I wasn't completely honest with you. But he _is_ a genius." When the scientist looked ready to argue, Starbuck held up a hand and said, 'Wait. Let me show you something, and _you_ can decide for yourself." He motioned for Dr. Wilker to follow him back into the squadron's billet.  
  
In spite of everything, the doctor was curious. Putting aside the list of arguments that he had formulated in his anger on his way to find the lieutenant, Wilker nodded, and said, "All right. Just what is it you want to show me?"  
  
Starbuck led him back into the quarters to his bunk. Moving slowly and cautiously, he knelt and opened his footlocker, pulling out a device and handing it to Dr. Wilker after maneuvering back to his feet. The object was about the size of his hand, was roughly cubical, and was obviously hand-crafted. It had a slot for inserting several data discs, four small speakers, and numerous function buttons. Wilker examined it, turning it around, and finally asked, "So what does it do?"  
  
Starbuck pushed a button, and the crystal-clear sounds of a Sagittarian orchestral piece began playing. He explained, "It's a digital device that records, copies, and plays music files. You can also program variations of files, or even original pieces, using the data it has stored!" Starbuck found the device fascinating.  
  
His enthusiasm was contagious, because Wilker held the device, slowly turning it, examining it, his anger fading rapidly. He explored the function buttons, quickly figuring out the programming sequences. Finally, he looked at Starbuck a bit skeptically, and asked, "Are you saying that Copernicus created this? How?"  
  
Starbuck grinned, knowing that he had almost hooked the doctor, and said, "He collects and hordes discarded electronics. He created this out of all the spare parts he had!"   
  
He watched in silence as the scientist played with the device, quickly becoming absorbed in altering the musical variations. After about five centons, the doctor seemed to remember the reason why he had originally come in search of Starbuck. The frown returned. "Look, assuming that Copernicus did create this, how is he supposed to function in my laboratory? He wouldn't listen to me or even look at me!"  
  
Starbuck let out a long breath. "His friend, Tarnia, will help him adjust, and I want to help, too. He just needs time. I'm not sure how long it will take, but if you can be patient with him, I'm sure we can figure out something that will work for both of you." Starbuck let the smile fade and looked Dr. Wilker squarely in the eyes. "I owe my life to him. And he deserves this chance. Tarnia can explain it much better, but he has a wealth of potential that's just going to waste. Up to now, all he's been doing is repairing broken equipment for people and tinkering with the spare parts. And if he can do this with simple hand tools . . ." He nodded to the device and let his voice trail off, leaving the rest to the scientist's imagination.  
  
Dr. Wilker slowly handed the device back to Starbuck, considering everything. Eventually, he said, "All right. All right. I'll talk with his friend, and I'll give him some time. The Lords know I could use some creative help in the lab. I've got a big project, but we're getting nowhere."  
  
Starbuck could not hold back a big grin as he escorted the doctor out into the corridor once more. The relief he felt was almost palpable, and it ignited the optimism that the events of the past several sectons had dampened. Normally able to find the positive side to any situation, lately Starbuck had caught himself slipping into the pensive moods more and more, and the forced inactivity, coupled with the annoying dreams, had only exacerbated his somber feelings. Now, he had a focus, a goal, and he intended to give his full effort to repaying this mysterious, brilliant man who had saved a total stranger. Starbuck, still grinning, shook his head as he watched Dr. Wilker disappeared down the corridor. It was time to find Copernicus.  
  
*****  
The converted storage room to anyone else would have seemed cramped, but to Copernicus, it was comforting, an enclosed space, a safe cocoon. Already he appeared to be adapting and seemed to be at ease in his new home. Starbuck, leaning back against the wall, watched as the tall, thin and wiry man sat amid a scattering of equipment, spare pieces and tools, intently working. Although only in his forties, he looked older; he had scraggly, unkempt hair and a beard, both mostly grey, but sprinkled with streaks of jet black, and he wore a faded and tattered brown tunic and pants. In the far corner sat his old mattress, blankets, and a crate: his furnishings from the _Sagittarius_ . He also had a large storage locker, which Tarnia said that she had kept for him, that held clothing and the rest of his personal items. He did not own much, for he spent almost all of his waking hours repairing, tinkering with, and creating gadgets and electronic devices.  
  
Tarnia also stood watching the silent Copernicus. She was close to Copernicus in age, probably a bit younger. She had short, dark hair and clear blue eyes. She was about the same height as Starbuck and she wore a simple blouse and skirt over her strong, stocky frame. While not petite, she has definitely not overweight, and her build gave her a look of strength. Starbuck could imagine Tarnia using it to her full advantage when needed.  
  
Starbuck's gaze drifted back to Copernicus, who was totally involved in his work, apparently oblivious of his guests, humming softly to himself. Starbuck was struck suddenly by how content the man seemed. During his visit with Copernicus and Tarnia on the _Sagittarius_ , he had first noticed how involved and excited Copernicus could become. If not lost in concentration, Copernicus would talk in an eager, loud voice about his current project. He seemed to radiate a simple, unadulterated contentment. Glancing at Tarnia, Starbuck caught her eye and knew that she had been watching, studying him. He flashed her a grin and asked, "Is he always this happy?"  
  
She sighed, a bit wistfully, and answered, "He lives mostly in the present, in the moment. He can experience the full range of emotions, from anger and despair to great joy, but it usually will be based off of what is happening right then and there. He has a superb memory, but I think because of his neural-processing problems, he doesn't view past events with the same emotionality that we do - he knows what happened and can describe things in great detail, but in a detached manner, like reading a textbook."  
  
"Really?" Starbuck said. A number of comments came to mind, but, instead, he said nothing further. Aware that Tarnia was still observing him, he shifted a bit, pulling away from the wall and keeping his expression neutral. He tried to sort out what he was feeling as he considered Copernicus. It seemed so incongruous. Most of the time, he appeared withdrawn, separate from the reality everyone else had to face, alone but content in his own internal world; yet he had reached out to help a complete stranger. Why? Why bother? Tarnia had said that he was aware of far more than it seemed, and that he could surprise even her, at times, with the clarity of his thoughts and perceptions. "Incredible" was a word that kept coming to his mind. Starbuck gave up trying to figure it out as he let his gaze drift back over the tiny room. Sitting on one of the selves, along with a stack of discs, he noticed a music device, similar to the one Copernicus had given him, and he moved over to examine it.   
  
Keeping her attention on the lieutenant, Tarnia said, "He listens to music - specific orchestral pieces - when it's time to sleep and when he needs to rest or calm himself down. And he'll listen to them over and over. It seems to refocus him."  
  
Starbuck nodded, watching as Copernicus quickly and intently worked on what appeared to be a small, hand-held computer. An uneasy feeling nudged at the him as his encounter with Dr. Wilker replayed briefly in his mind. Starbuck had been so focused on the idea of helping the man that, even to himself, he had ignored some of the realities of Copernicus' condition. To be able to function in the lab, he would have to be able to follow certain procedures and be able to cooperate with Dr. Wilker and his other assistants. Good intentions were not going to be enough; this was going to take hard work and persistence from everyone. And even then they might not be successful. But - Starbuck refocused his own thoughts - they had to at least try.  
  
Turning to back Tarnia, Starbuck asked quietly, "Do you think the, ah, facilities will work out okay for him?" This part had been the weakest point of the arrangement, since storage closets did not come equipped with turbowashes, and such.   
  
Tarnia chuckled briefly. "It should be fine. As you know, one of the sanitation facilities for Dr. Wilker's lab is right across the hall. It has everything, including a turbowash and medical supplies, even, since as a laboratory, they need to be prepared for accidents and emergencies." Tarnia looked at the lieutenant with an amused smile. "He'll spend very little time there. I mean, if I didn't schedule it into his routine, he'd probably never take a shower!"  
  
Starbuck gave her a puzzled, look. "You schedule even that?" In the course of their discussions, she had explained that they used schedules to create a consistent and predictable routine for him, but she had never gone into the specifics.  
  
Tarnia pulled a data pad from the shelf near the musical device and handed it to him. It showed a daily schedule. Tarnia said, "We've gone over this numerous times so he'll remember to do it. Today and for the next secton or so, I'll be here to walk him through it - it takes about that long for a routine to become habit for him." Tarnia's lip curled as Starbuck read through the list. She watched as he stared at a couple of the items. "Yes. We even schedule "relief" breaks. I mean, he gets so involved in his creations and work that he doesn't listen to his body's signals. Without a strict schedule, he might not even eat sometimes." Starbuck handed the pad back to her, still a bit amazed. Tarnia added, "Of course, our biggest concern for today will be talking with Dr. Wilker so I can elaborate on that part of the schedule; we need to decide what he'll start out doing in the lab."   
  
She stopped suddenly and gave Starbuck a pointed look. "We are counting on your assistance with this, Lieutenant. It's very noble of you to help us, and all, but it's not going to be easy. I wouldn't have agreed, though, if I didn't think that he were capable of succeeding . . . he's just never had the chance before. . ." Tarnia turned her attention quickly back to Copernicus, still working intently on the floor, still seemingly oblivious to their conversation.  
  
Starbuck, however, had caught the glistening in her eye and the catch in her voice. He moved closer and lightly touched her shoulder. She shifted her gaze back to him. "Look," he said, "I've learned enough to know that I can trust your instincts with him, and I want you to know that I'll do everything possible to make this work. I don't know what you may have heard about me," Starbuck's mind flashed back to all of the stories that had been on the Interfleet Broadcasting Network, or simply IFB, after the incident on the Zodia. Somehow, he had become their prime subject lately, and even he did not recognize some of the gossip they had dredged up about him and his reputation. He continued, "but my friends will tell you that I am stubborn and determined when I want something. And you can count on me." He gave her a steady look, tempered with a slight smile to ease the her tension.  
  
Tarnia nodded, her doubts shielded once more by her own determination. "I'm a pretty good judge of character, Lieutenant. And I know you're being honest with me. And I'm very grateful for what you're doing. Not many people ever bother to make the effort to really get to know Copernicus. Your misfortune has been our gain."  
  
Starbuck looked at her and asked hesitantly, "How did you meet Copernicus. I mean, why . . .?"  
  
Tarnia finished the question, "Why do I care for him? Why is he so important to me?" Starbuck nodded, hoping that he was not overstepping any boundaries. Tarnia did not seem upset by the question, though. She answered, "I had a brother a long time ago. He was three yahrens older than me and very much like Copernicus. In fact, that's how I first got to know Copernicus. They had the same teachers and assistants in school. We lived in a small town not far from the Sagittarian capital. Anyway, when I was fourteen and my brother was seventeen, our town was blasted by the Cylons. Our school took a direct hit. My class was on the far side and was damaged the least, but the older kids . . . I went to find my brother in the confusion afterwards . . . Only Copernicus and a couple of others survived. Ironically, Copernicus lost his parents in that raid - the town was pretty much destroyed. . . So he's my adopted brother, really, even though we never made it official. My family decided to find something positive to do in light of the tragedy, so we took him in. And even before the raid I had decided that I would focus my life and my career on helping my brother and others like him."  
  
"Wow." A brief coldness had stabbed at the pit of his stomach. A vision of parents lost . . . Starbuck quickly shook it off. Looking at Tarnia, he felt a growing respect for her strength and dedication. He knew that she had supported and protected Copernicus both before and after the Holocaust. And he knew that, after surviving the initial escape from Sagittarius, she had fought fiercely on his behalf to insure that he would survive. Now he knew why. He also had the distinct impression that after yahrens of deciphering Copernicus, she could see through just about anyone . . . Starbuck shifted restlessly.  
  
Tarnia decided it was time to change the subject and proceed with their current goal. "Anyway, Lieutenant, it's time to tackle Dr. Wilker!" As she continued, she gave him a grin that he would even call mischievous as she outlined for him what they needed to do over the next couple of centars in Dr. Wilker's lab. He was also getting the feeling that she enjoyed a good challenge, such as the one that awaited them. Even under peaceful conditions, protecting and guiding Copernicus would have been a difficult task, yet she seemed confident and satisfied with her role. When Starbuck considered how many additional challenges the endless, ruthless war must have presented, he felt a sense of awe.   
  
And her enthusiasm was contagious. Starbuck shook his head and grinned, "You know, maybe we should get you into a viper. I don't think the Cylons would stand a chance with you around!"  
  
Tarnia returned the grin. "Well, you're my 'wingman' today, so we'd better get moving."   
  
  



	2. Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO  
  
Captain Apollo stretched, pulling his elbows back and rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks from sitting for three centars in a cockpit. Using his fingers, he tried to brush the matted feeling from his dark hair as he tossed his helmet to his viper technician. Giving up, he tugged at the bottom of his dark-brown suede flight jacket and looked back to see the mechanics already attending to the post-flight maintenance as they inspected the sleek, long-nosed viper. He grunted slightly as he felt his calf muscles return to life after being essentially immobile for so long, and he walked slowly, still stretching, waiting for his interim wingmate, Lieutenant Boomer, to join him before heading to the bridge to brief the commander about their patrol.   
  
As his feet automatically led him towards the turbolift, Apollo's thoughts quickly turned back inward, as they had quite often during the uneventful patrol, only to be broken by Boomer trying to fight his own boredom. The captain's green eyes took on a distant look as he let his mind wander. The meeting would take maybe, say, five centons, he reflected, and then he could head back to his quarters to loosen up with a cool turbowash. And catch up on some reading before his adopted son, Boxey, returned from Instructional Period. The Colonial history files - he had been reviewing and rereading all that he had ever learned in school and at the Academy, and more. He was convinced that the Fleet was on the right course, and that they would eventually find Earth.   
His belief had been fueled by the transmission received on the old gamma frequency in the celestial dome shortly before their most recent encounter with the Cylons. For some time prior to that moment, Apollo had visited the old celestial chamber that sat high above the Galactica's great thrusters whenever possible. The dome had once been used by navigators over 500 yahrens ago to take astronomical readings but had long since been abandoned. Apollo had found a safe haven there, a quiet, solitary window to the universe where he felt as if he were "riding in the hand of God" when the shields were withdrawn, and only the transparent tylinium shield remained. He felt enveloped and embraced by the star field. He had repaired the transceivers and other equipment and would spend centars, when possible, just listening and gazing into the infiniteness. He had known that the Fleet's first contact with Earth would be through its transmissions and signals.  
  
Most of the people who knew of the transmission, including the commander, believed that it had been a lure from the lone Cylon basestar to direct them into a trap. But not Apollo. The captain had a gut feeling, an unidentifiable sense, that they were wrong. He was convinced that the signal had originated from deep space. From Earth. Unfortunately, the only copy of the transmission had been lost when Dr. Wilker's lab had been destroyed during the battle with the basestar. But although they had heard nothing else, even with the modifications to the transceiver that Boomer had installed afterwards, Apollo still felt that it had been a sign, maybe from the Gods themselves, that they were making progress. That there was hope.   
  
For a time following the Holocaust, with so many killed or left to perish, and then with the death of his beloved wife of such a brief time, Serina, Apollo had felt a hollow emptiness inside, even a bitter anger, where once he had accepted a belief in the will of the Gods. How could they have allowed such total destruction? But after the encounter with the mysterious Ship of Lights, the vague, hazy remembrance of something extraordinary occurring . . . and the revelation of the possible coordinates for Earth, Apollo had felt an indefinable sense, a renewed feeling of faith, and he trusted his instincts.  
  
So he was going to be prepared for when the day came that they finally discovered Earth. He could think of only one way to do so: to study their own history and to have an understanding of all of the events that shaped their own lives, leading up to the terrible Holocaust. Perhaps then, he would have an understanding of the different directions the history of the Thirteenth Tribe might have taken. Analyzing and studying the history of twelve different Colonies should give him an insight to the human mind.   
  
And if not, he still found it fascinating, especially the history of the development of space flight and interplanetary travel. When he needed to clear his mind, he loved to stretch out on his bed after Boxey was asleep and read about the exploits and legends of the early explorers for the Twelve Colonies. With eyes closed as he drifted off to sleep, he would imagine them all as explorers, settlers, not war refugees.  
  
"Hey, Apollo!" Boomer's voice broke through his reverie as the lieutenant walked up beside him. "Let's get the briefing over with. I feel the need to burn some energy after that patrol. Maybe a good workout in the training room." Boomer ran both hands over his short, black, tightly curled hair, then flexed his arms outward, working out the stiffness, also.  
  
Apollo quickly pulled his thoughts back to the present and gave Boomer a relaxed smile as they stepped up onto the launch bay turbolift. "Not for me, but thanks. And it suits me just fine that we've got nothing to report. The longer that holds true, the greater the odds that we've lost the Cylons for good!" They fell into silence as the lift ascended with a loud whine that made conversations more effort than they were worth.  
  
Boomer glanced at the captain as the two-centon ride to the bridge continued. He noted the easy, relaxed expression on Apollo's face and felt his own sense of relief. After so many sectars of being pursued, of constant alerts, of a stress that he had thought would never end, it was such a great pleasure to be able to find and follow some ordinary, uneventful routines. The state of alert had been lifted two sectons ago, for the first time in nearly a yahren. One great pressure, at least, had been lifted from the shoulders of the warriors. Finally, the viper pilots could loosen up, find some individual pursuits, regain some semblance of a more normal life, as normal as possible under the circumstances. In some ways, it was a novel experience for everyone - not in a thousand yahrens had they felt this degree of freedom from the Cylon oppression. Now, if they just weren't packed like canned pisces in these ships, light-yahrens from their homeworlds, still facing food and fuel shortages and other crises . . .  
  
Boomer smiled to himself as the turbolift whined its last several metrons to the bridge. He looked back towards Apollo and shook his head slightly as he noticed that the captain seemed to have drifted back into his own thoughts. He was always pensive, Boomer reflected, but lately his friend seemed more at ease than he had seen him in a long time. The rock-steady, serious, reserved face that he presented when on duty, and often when not, had been tempered more and more with the witty humor and good nature that he usually kept hidden.   
  
With a mild jolt, the turbolift stopped, and quiet filled their ears for a micron before the door opened onto the bustling bridge of the Galactica. As always, the bridge was highlighted with the myriad of lights from the long ring of consoles that arched around the raised command center, and everyone was absorbed in their duties; little extraneous conversation was ever heard. But unlike times in the past, when a sober seriousness had weighed in the atmosphere, the general attitude mirrored Apollo's: a cautious optimism.  
  
Looking around, Apollo and Boomer spotted the commander near the command console with Lieutenants Bojay and Sheba. They had returned from their patrol about ten centons earlier, having scouted the quadrant ahead of the Galactica, and were in the middle of their briefing. As they approached, they heard Bojay report, "We went as far in front as we dared, and our sensors still picked up nothing."  
  
Commander Adama looked thoughtful, but not worried. He stood, hands behind his back, gazing out the wide viewport at the star field ahead of them for a moment. Apollo noted, as he had on many other occasions, just how strong an influence his father's tall, calm figure radiated. His royal blue bridge uniform, along with his wizened face and silver hair, only accentuated his formidable presence. Apollo's admiration could never diminish. At last, the commander turn back and said, "Well, that's not surprising, since we're between star systems. Based off of the extrapolations of our old star charts and readings, as well as from current observations and findings, we should reach the next solar system in about another sectar. Until we are closer, it should be fairly quiet sailing." The commander noticed the new arrivals and waved them over.  
  
The two warriors nodded to their friends as they approached. Apollo said, "Nothing to report from Patrol One, I assume then?"   
  
Bojay answered, "No. Not even a stray asteroid. Not a peep from the scanners. How about you and Boomer?"  
  
Apollo shifted his gaze to his father as he stated, "Patrol Two found nothing. It was equally quiet, and we were finally out of the viper's scanner range of System Omicron." Having long since surpassed the limits of previously-charted space, each new solar system they encountered received a standard Colonial designation. Omicron had been the site for their most recent, and perhaps final, battle with the Cylons.  
  
Adama absorbed this information with an impassive expression. Eventually, he said, "All of this is good news. But we must weigh our optimism with caution."  
  
Apollo sensed a preoccupation, something, in his father's mood. He said, "Commander, is there anything else?"  
  
Adama turned his gaze back to the viewport and the quiet star field. "I've been in contact with several ships. All but five have elected their Fleet representatives. And some are already accumulating a long list of complaints and suggestions. I'm meeting with the Council of Twelve later today." Adama shifted his gaze back to his warriors. "I'm calling a mandatory briefing for tomorrow at 0900. I'll be presenting all concerns and items that come up today, as well as a new program we wish to implement as soon as possible." Adama's face softened with a faint smile. "Until then, why don't you all take a break before the game tonight?"  
  
The triad semi-finals. Boomer gave his captain a playful, challenging look, dark-brown eyes sparked with the excitement, and said, "That's a good idea. I know you and Barton need all the practice you can get. Me? I am rea-dy!"  
  
Apollo shook his head, going along with the friendly teasing. "Even though we're still the odds-on favorites?" He and Boomer were good friends, but had been rivals on the triad courts for the six sectars since the leagues had been organized. With little other distraction available, the people of the Fleet had embraced the competition with a hungry passion. To avoid the rise of illegal activities, controlled wagering was allowed and even encouraged; it would have happened anyway. The commander and the council saw no reason to deny this aspect of human nature. He had sternly warned the people, though, against excesses or unsportsman-like behaviors. There were limits to his tolerance. Both the Colonial Security and all warriors had been warned to keep a close watch for such activities, but so far, no evidence existed of the crass behaviors that could arise; all seemed to be enjoying themselves while following their favorite teams.  
  
Tonight's game would be the first in the second round of the men's championship. The triad league had opted for twelve-secton seasons, and the second one had culminated just over thirteen days ago, with the championship rounds for both the men and the women starting the previous secton. Tonight, Boomer and his partner, Sergeant Greenbean, would face half of the reigning championship team: Apollo, along with his temporary partner, Barton. A general feeling of regret that Starbuck, his regular partner, had been sidelined for the next several sectons, was overridden by the overall excitement generated when Apollo and Barton had soundly defeated their first opponents. In competitive, aggressive sports such as triad, injuries and replacements went with the territory; that the lieutenant's injury had occurred outside of the triad court made little difference to the diehard fans.   
  
Apollo, however, felt the regret. While Barton had proved to be a good, solid partner, he missed playing with Starbuck. He and Starbuck were able to connect, to read each other, and to effortlessly anticipate the others' moves. That just did not happen with Barton, or with anyone else. And Apollo knew that the current conditions were not easy for his energetic, impulsive friend. Had the injury actually occurred on the triad court, it might have been easier for them both. As it were, few people knew all of the details of the incident aboard the Sagittarius ten days ago; only the necessary information had been released to the general population via the IFB. The people had a right to know, but the council and the commander also had a duty to maintain control in the Fleet. Coming right after the forced rationing, the commander's main goal was to avoid any further such fear-spawned incidents. So the triad fans knew that Starbuck had been injured in the line of duty, but little else.  
  
The communications console in front of Omega beeped loudly before Boomer could make his retort to Apollo. Along with other duties, the bridge officer monitored the command channels. He looked up at the commander, who was standing off to his right, and said, "Secure message from the Prison Barge, Sir."  
  
The four warriors watched as Adama donned a headset and activated the channel. As always, they could read nothing from his expression as he listened to the message, and all waited with patient curiosity. Finally, the commander said, "Handle everything discreetly, please. I'll make a statement for the IFB and the Fleet shortly."  
  
Apollo did not like the feeling that was gnawing at him as he watched his father remove the headset and rub the bridge of his nose: always a sign of frustration or weariness with a task at hand. Before they could speak, Adama motioned for the four to follow him off the bridge and into his office.  
  
Once inside, the commander leaned against the front of his desk as the others stood waiting, wondering. "Some . . . unpleasant . . . news," he finally said. He sighed as he continued, "Connly, former captain of the Zodia, overpowered his guards, seized a laser, and shot himself in the head."  
  
A stunned silence reigned for a moment. Despite everything they had endured, there had actually been little violence within the Fleet over the course of the past yahren. Ortega's murder by Charybdis, one of Baltar's associates and a traitor as well, had been one of the first incidents since the Holocaust. And only one of a few instances of a life being taken. The news would spread through the Fleet, with the help of the IFB, and the gossip and sensationalism would permeate the atmosphere for a short but intense time, until the emotions faded to a more vague sorrow. A reminder of the human spirit's frailties.   
  
Boomer asked finally, "How will this affect the people, Sir?"   
  
Adama had been pondering that question. "It's tragic that he felt the need to take his own life. I don't know." He shook his head. "For some, it will simply give them something to talk about for a while, a little excitement. For others . . . the effects could be more profound. We just can't tell." Adama sighed. "And I need to contact his relatives - if he had any -- before issuing a statement to the IFB."   
  
Adama was about to continue when the expression on his son's face caught his attention. "What is it, Apollo?"  
  
Sheba and Boomer turned to the captain, noting also the pensive, concerned look that had settled over him as he had listened to the commander. After a moment, he said, "I think I should tell Starbuck, too, before it's broadcast all over the IFB."  
  
Adama looked puzzled. "Why is that?"  
  
Apollo was chewing his lip, thinking, remembering. He said slowly, "Back during the trial, I got the feeling that Starbuck actually felt sorry for Connly. I can't explain it exactly . . . but I got the impression that something was bothering Starbuck. Of course, he denied it whenever I asked. But still . . . it's not what he needs to hear right now."  
  
All eyes were on Apollo as the commander asked, "Is there something I should know? What's your assessment of his present condition?"  
  
"From what I can tell, all of this forced inactivity is making him moodier than I've seen him before. You know how impatient he is at times like this, and this is the longest time he's been restricted from duty in over four yahrens. And Cassiopeia tells me that he's not sleeping well. Something about nightmares, but he won't discuss it with her or with anyone. This is not going to help things."   
  
Apollo met his father's gaze as the commander nodded, thinking, considering this information. Apollo, also, was remembering -- a conversation he had had with Starbuck, before Connly had been convicted. He had found Starbuck alone in the corridor outside of the tribunal chamber, his face furrowed in a deep frown, lost in his thoughts. The look was so uncharacteristic of his friend that Apollo had interrupted, reaching a hand out to his shoulder. He had tried to ease the tension by saying, "Hey! It'll be over in a couple of centars, and you can forget about this whole thing!"  
  
Starbuck had not even tried to smile, so intense were his thoughts. He had stared at him with a fire in his blue eyes and said, instead, "You heard Connly's service record read. He was a dedicated freighter pilot before the Holocaust, and many of the people of the Zodia credit him with helping to pull their lives together afterwards. How could he change so much? How could he waste so much talent and skill . . ." His voice had trailed off.   
  
The unspoken question had hung between them: "Why had he fallen apart?" Not really knowing what to adequately say, Apollo had answered, "It happens. It just happens sometimes." He had placed both hands on his friend's shoulders, looked into his troubled eyes, and had said, "Hey, this isn't the Starbuck I know. Remember? You're supposed to cheer *me* up. Drag me off to the OC or over to the Rising Star to lose all my cubits." A faint smile had flickered across Starbuck's face as he hesitantly looked his friend in the eyes. Apollo added, "Try not to dwell on it. Okay? Come on - let's get something to eat before it continues." He had led Starbuck off, and the lieutenant's mood had slowly shifted back to its cheerful self.  
  
When, to no one's surprise, Connly had been sentenced to at least 10 yahrens aboard the Prison Barge for leading the conspiracy and for attempted termination, Apollo had been at Starbuck's side in the tribunal. And he had seen Connly stare directly at Starbuck as the former captain had been led away. To anyone else, the lieutenant's reaction would have been unreadable; Apollo had sensed a troubled stirring beneath his friend's expressionless exterior. . .   
  
The commander's voice snapped the captain back to the present. "Apollo," he said, "By all means, if you think that this news will upset Starbuck, go find him before he sees it on the IFB."  
  
"Yes, Sir." Apollo looked over at Boomer. "Come with me?" Boomer nodded. Apollo turned towards the others.   
  
Although Bojay had once been friends with both Starbuck and Apollo before being transferred to the Pegasus, much had changed since then, with the passage of the yahrens; their interactions now were mostly on a competitive level. Feeling a bit awkward with the present situation, Bojay said, "Look, I'd better go take care of the official report for the patrol. Catch you guys at the game tonight." Apollo nodded and Boomer gave him a thumbs up as he departed.  
  
Apollo looked at Sheba, not quite certain what to say. Sheba's confession, after Starbuck and he had come up with the daring, even crazy plan to use the traitor Baltar's Cylon fighter to penetrate the enemy basestar and disable its sensors, flashed disturbingly and briefly to mind, as it seemed to often do these days. The two warriors had been aboard the fighter preparing to leave on their seemingly suicidal mission, when both Sheba and Cassiopeia had entered, their faces tense and serious. Cassie had curtly request a moment of Starbuck's time -- alone -- leaving the lieutenant with Apollo. Unexpectedly, Sheba had confronted him, laying bare her true feelings with a few painfully heartfelt words and a surprising kiss, and then leaving him disoriented and staring blankly at the hatch through which she had disappeared before he could even begin to think of a response. Since that confusing moment, Apollo had been trying to sort out his emotions. He did not want to exclude her, but was uneasy about bringing her along. He just was not sure. . .  
  
Sheba gave him a gentle smile. She sensed the disturbance that her revelations had caused. But although Apollo had not denied any feelings, he had not admitted to any yet either; Sheba knew she needed to give him time but remain persistent. On this occasion, however, she suspected that she should back out, uncertain of her bounds, knowing how closely connected Apollo and Starbuck were, and how intimately Boomer and they dealt with their personal issues. She said, "I'll see you later. I have some things I need to do."  
  
The captain nodded, watching as Sheba quietly left, feeling the confusion bubble for a moment to the surface before he focused back onto the task at hand. Then he motioned for Boomer to follow him. As they all had departed, Adama watched his warriors, his son and his friends, wondering briefly what might be going on, then turned his attention to the somber task of notifying Connly's relatives.  
  
*****  
"I beg your pardon. You can't be serious?" An expression of disbelief hung over Dr. Wilker's face as he stared at Copernicus.  
  
Copernicus, face calm, almost expressionless, looked up at the scientist from the computer terminal and repeated, "I have finished the book."  
  
Lieutenant Starbuck, watching the exchange, tried to suppress the laugh he felt building as the doctor continued. "But that was a third-yahren textbook. You just started it a centar ago! How could you possibly be finished?"  
  
"I have finished the book," Copernicus repeated again, voice even, his eyes gazing unwaveringly at the scientist. He sat still, waiting, expectant.  
  
Wilker turned in exasperation to Tarnia, who was seated at a different terminal, engaged in her own studies for her new position in the lifestation. She made no attempt to hide her amusement as she explained, "He probably skimmed the text and was familiar with most of it. You see, he reads technical journals - frequently. And he has an exceptional memory."  
  
"I frequently read technical journals," Copernicus said. Then he added, "I am ready for the next one."  
  
As part of his new responsibilities, Copernicus would spend time reading and studying to fortify his knowledge of mathematics and the sciences and expand his potential as one of Wilker's assistants. As a random starting point, the scientist had chosen the third-yahren, university-level astrophysics text, figuring that it would keep Copernicus occupied for at least a secton, if not longer. He would never have believed, and still was not convinced, that he had read all of the material in a centar!  
  
Wilker just stared at the man for a moment and shook his head. Finally, he said, "Well, if you can read a third-yahren astrophysics text in a centar, surely you can remember how to access and download the next one!"  
  
Copernicus grinned like a child on his natal day and quickly proceeded to   
the next level of his studies. The impression of an eager child persisted, in spite of his unkempt, almost beggar, appearance as he quickly accessed the desired program. His enthusiasm lit his face and sparkled in his blue eyes. The subtleties of concealment and deception were foreign to him; his face always mirrored his true emotions. Almost immediately, he was absorbed in his reading, oblivious to all else.  
  
Starbuck chuckled, drawing an irritated glance from the doctor, who then returned silently to his work area across the lab. He and two assistants had a mock-up of a prototype generator on a table, surrounded by a myriad of parts and pieces, and three different computer terminals devoted to the present project.  
  
Looking around, Starbuck decided that the lab actually looked better than it did before the destruction a sectar ago. After taking a direct hit, the hull had been breached and almost everything that had not burned from the explosion had been lost into the vacuum of space. Amazingly, crews were able to seal the breach and rebuild the structure in less than two sectons. Using equipment from the Electronics Ship, Dr. Wilker had restocked his lab. Now, it was as if the destruction had never happened, almost.  
  
Feeling a growing dull but persistent ache in the middle of his back, Starbuck stood up slowly from the terminal where he had been playing a computer simulation and stretched cautiously. He moved to peer over Copernicus' shoulder. On the screen in front of the man was a three-dimensional representation of a theory that Starbuck could not even begin to identify. The model slowly moved through all of its different perspectives, shifting inside and out, turning, rotating. Copernicus, leaning forward, seemed mesmerized by the image. And as he watched it, he moved his head so that he was gazing at the image from the corner of his eyes. Slowly, he brought his hand up, fingers in front of his face, waving them slightly, changing his viewpoint, his perception of the image. . .   
  
Starbuck watched for a moment, fascinated both with the computer model and with Copernicus' unique interaction with it. Gradually, though, his mind drifted back over the past three centars. It had gone well, he thought; he was encouraged that Copernicus would be able to adapt to his new home and responsibilities. When they had arrived, Dr. Wilker had shown Copernicus his corner in the back of the lab. Until he adapted and seemed capable of functioning with the others, he would have two duties: studying and doing routine repairs. Since it was his expertise, Copernicus would handle repairing the various items that the Galactica's crew kept bringing down; even though the doctor insisted that his lab was for scientific research, not for simple electronic repair jobs, the people continued to bring in their broken items, asking, insisting that it was much simpler than shipping it over to the Electronics Ship, where it was likely to sit for sectons. Or to end up lost forever, never to be seen again. Wilker had found it easier to assign one of his assistants to the task, rather than argue against the entire ship's crew. Thus, he could now happily hand that job over to Copernicus.  
  
And the man had greeted the prospect with the same enthusiasm that he attacked his studies. Starbuck had hung back, listening and observing as Tarnia, Wilker, and Copernicus, to an extent, had discussed his responsibilities. Wilker had explained his ideas to Tarnia, who, much like a translator working between two different languages, in turn rephrased them for Copernicus. Copernicus then repeated his instructions and duties several times, as he processed and internalized the information. At one point, Copernicus had unexpectedly turned to Starbuck, stared straight into his eyes, grinning innocently as he said, "I fix things!" Starbuck, startled, had stared at him in silence, absorbing the words as Copernicus turned his attention back to Tarnia.  
  
Following that, they had walked through Copernicus' schedule and routines, literally. Restless, Starbuck had gladly accompanied Tarnia and Copernicus as they traveled the routes and corridors that he would be likely to traverse on the Galactica, going from the lab to his quarters to Tarnia's quarters and back, repeatedly. Tarnia had explained, "As you've seen, he's afraid of change, and even small changes in his routine can be very stressful. He needs to be guided through the transitions. Until he's familiar and comfortable with his surroundings, they can be over-stimulating for him. When he's on sensory overload, that's when he loses control, and he'll either withdraw completely or throw a screaming fit."   
  
Watching as Copernicus walked with his hand gliding on the wall and his eyes wide and gazing around, Starbuck had said softly, "Change is hard for a lot of people, and no one wants to feel out of control. . ."   
  
His voice had trailed off as a vague, disturbing remembrance stabbed at his conscious mind, and Tarnia had shot him one of her penetrating looks. The lieutenant had quickly changed the subject. By the end of the seventh round trip, Starbuck was actually feeling the exertion, feeling the dull ache, and was relieved to sit back down to observe the next step.   
  
Tarnia again rehearsed Copernicus on his duties and schedule for the lab, asking him questions and nodding, seeming pleased with his responses now. He was more relaxed, more animated, repeating instructions several times in a louder, quicker voice. And frequently, he had gazed at Starbuck as he spoke, seeming to want to share his enthusiasm with his new friend. The lieutenant had nodded his agreement, not knowing what else to say, as Copernicus directed his statements, his repeated phrases, at him and not Tarnia or the doctor. While the verbal interaction was unskilled, Copernicus' intent to reach out and include the warrior was so clear, so open and honest.  
  
And Starbuck had watched all, fascinated, beginning to understand how the man functioned, seeing the stark contrast to his outward awkwardness and the brilliance that he knew existed within. Dr. Wilker, however, remained skeptical. At one point, the scientist had stopped to watch Tarnia and Copernicus, and had muttered beneath his breath, "I don't see how this can possibly work."   
  
Ignoring the protests from his muscles, Starbuck had stood quickly and moved squarely in front of Wilker, saying angrily but quietly, "Look, you promised to keep an open mind for at least a secton. This is just the first day! That's the trouble with you and everyone else - you just see this person who can't talk very well and doesn't act like the rest of us. And you assume that he's an idiot. Well, in my book, anyone who can create the kind of things that he does," Starbuck jabbed a finger in Copernicus' direction, and drilled Wilker with his gaze. "deserves better than that! Listen, he's a genius and probably beyond either mine or *your* comprehension!" The doctor had been taken aback with Starbuck's intensity, apologized, and had withdrawn back to his area of the lab.  
  
The lieutenant gazed once more at the computer model slowly rotating on the screen in front of Copernicus, then glanced at Tarnia. She was absorbed with her own reading. Starbuck noted that things seemed quiet enough. He really did not need to stay. He shifted on his feet, feeling the physical strain, feeling restless, feeling the growing irritation that so little activity would be so tiring still. He considered going back to the computer simulation that had occupied him for the previous centar, but really had no interest.   
  
Abruptly, Copernicus turned and said, "Do you like it?"  
  
Startled, Starbuck asked, "What? Like what?"  
  
Copernicus pointed to the screen. "That. Do you like it?"  
  
Having no true idea what the model was supposed to represent, Starbuck, said, "I, uh, well, it looks very interesting!"  
  
Copernicus smiled at him and launched into a long explanation of the computer model and the theory behind it. After the first several sentences, Starbuck gave up trying to follow what he was saying and instead, marveled at how fluid his speech was at this moment. He had learned that Copernicus had two modes. When discussing a familiar topic, he sounded just like a textbook or a lecturing professor, and perhaps he was quoting word-for-word, or not, but he would go on and on, no hesitations, no pauses. Otherwise, he stuttered and stopped frequently, searching for the words he wanted, or he repeated and echoed what he himself or others said.  
  
Glancing around, Starbuck caught Tarnia, amused again, watching them. He gave her a silent, beseeching look. She said, "You already know this; don't worry about interrupting, or you'll be there all day!"  
  
Sighing, Starbuck said, "Copernicus!"  
  
No reaction; the stream of astrophysics continued.  
  
"Copernicus!" He said it louder and more distinctly. "Copernicus!" The man stopped abruptly, his mind shifting from his internal thoughts to the external world again as he looked at Starbuck. The lieutenant continued, "I need to leave. I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
"Okay. Goodbye. Goodbye! I am glad you come tomorrow. I am glad you come!" Copernicus grinned broadly.   
  
Starbuck, gazing at the unabashed sincerity in the man's face, felt a deeply warm feeling and returned the smile easily. "I'll be here," he added.   
Coming over, Tarnia offered Starbuck her hand, saying, "Thanks, Lieutenant. I think we can handle it from here, so don't feel like you have to spend so much time with him. But do visit!"  
  
Starbuck felt awkward; he still wanted to help but was not sure what more he could do, and he was getting restless. He wanted to build on this growing friendship, but how to relate to someone so difficult to talk to? Feeling relieved at Tarnia's words, yet a bit guilty, Starbuck was about to respond when they heard the door to the lab swoosh open. A moment later, Apollo and Boomer entered, faces serious. Starbuck knew instantly that they were not there for a social visit, even as he grinned and asked, "Hey! Apollo, Boomer! What's up? Anything exciting to the rear of the Fleet?"  
  
"Uh, no," Apollo answered. He looked at the quiet faces of Tarnia and Copernicus, nodding a greeting. "Still quiet. Not a flicker on the scanners. Starbuck. . ."  
  
"Look, if you're here because it's time for mid-meal, I agree! I'm hungry enough to actually want to eat those rations. What have we got left - two more days?" Even as he spoke, his mind was racing. Just what was going on?  
  
Boomer cut in. "Starbuck, we've got some news that we thought you'd want to hear from us first." Apollo put a hand on the lieutanant's arm to guide him towards the short passage between the lab and the door, away from the others.  
  
The stillness in the room as even Wilker and his assistants paused, silent, left a ringing in the ears. His feet moved automatically. All thoughts stopped momentarily, and Starbuck felt the pounding as his heartbeat accelerated. What could possibly be going on? With difficulty, he kept a neutral expression when they stopped next to the entrance. "Okay. I'm listening," he said finally.  
  
"The commander just received word from the Prison Barge. Connly's dead," Apollo said quietly.  
  
Starbuck felt stunned. The words crashed into him as surely as if he had just collided full force with the wall. Cold, unidentifiable sensations flashed into his consciousness. Scenes, memories, emotions, the look on Connly's face as he had been led away from the tribunal.  
  
"Starbuck, are you all right?" Apollo's voice broke the sensations and brought him again to the present.   
  
Pushing the feelings back, regaining control, he answered, "I'm fine. I just wasn't expecting that. . . What happened?"  
  
Starbuck appeared calm and expressionless as the captain explained what little he knew, but Apollo noticed the slight tightening in his jaw, the intensity in his eyes. After a moment, Starbuck said, "Not exactly the news to brighten your day . . ."  
  
"Are you okay?" Apollo asked again. He added, "I know this whole episode with Connly has not been easy for you -"  
  
"I'm fine," Starbuck interrupted. "Why wouldn't I be? It's not as if I really knew the guy. And remember, these things just happen sometimes. Tragic, but life goes on."  
  
Apollo said quietly but firmly, "Starbuck, it's us." He moved closer, arms folded, lips tightened, his green eyes focused on his friend. "I know something's bothering you. If there's anything you want to discuss, you know you can."  
  
The lieutenant shifted, pulled back. He turned to see that Copernicus, with Tarnia at his side, was watching them from across the lab. He was staring fixedly at Starbuck, expressionless, yet his eyes seemed to drill into him. Feeling more and more unsettled, the lieutenant found it increasingly difficult to hide his uneasiness, his confusion, so he said, almost desperately, looking back and forth from his friends to Copernicus, "I really am hungry. Why don't we -"  
  
The man suddenly started forward, moving towards the warriors. Tarnia, surprised, reached out to stop him, but he brushed her off and continued. She trailed after him, looking embarrassed. Approaching the group and ignoring all social conventions, Copernicus interrupted abruptly, loudly, and said, "You are not happy. You are out of focus." Starbuck looked at him in bewilderment as he continued, "I'll be right back." He disappeared in the direction of his living quarters.  
  
Staring at the closed door where the man had exited, Starbuck struggled desperately to stay calm. Finally, he said, "Out of focus?" He looked over at Tarnia, avoiding his friends' anxious, worried faces.  
  
Tarnia said apologetically, "I'm sorry. Copernicus has very sensitive hearing when he concentrates . . ." She looked both uncomfortable and concerned, too.  
  
Apollo's mouth was a thin frown as he watched his friend. His own frustration was growing; It was obvious that the lieutenant was in denial, but he was not sure how he could help, not understanding the source of the reaction. Any act of self-termination was shocking and tragic, but Starbuck's feelings seemed to go beyond to a much more personal level. What was the connection? What was going on in his friend's mind during the tribunal, and what was it now? Apollo did not understand. Glancing at the others, he sighed and noted that Boomer, too, looked troubled.  
  
Before anyone else could speak, Copernicus returned just as quickly as he had vanished. He carried a disc and his musical device, along with a pair of headphones adapted from an old headset. Inserting the disc into the device and attaching the headphones, he handed it all to Starbuck, saying, "This will help you focus again. When I am out of control, this music helps me. Try it." Eyes wide, Starbuck just stared at him. "You are not happy," he repeated. "You are out of focus."   
  
He felt his defenses crumbling, felt confusion at his own feelings, and he struggled to maintain the façade that Copernicus had seen straight through. Taking the device, eyes lowered, avoiding all around him, Starbuck simply said, "Thanks." After another intensely uncomfortable moment, a burning desire to leave took over. Grabbing Apollo on the arm, he said, "Come on. I'm hungry. Let's go." He released the captain's arm as he waved with the music player at Copernicus and Tarnia. "Uh, I'll give it a try, but we really ought to be going now. I'll see you tomorrow!" Not waiting for either Apollo or Boomer, he headed, almost running, out of the lab.  
  
The two warriors, frustrated, shook their heads and followed in their friend's wake after quickly thanking Copernicus and saying goodbye. Tarnia, feeling the tension still floating in the air, looked at Copernicus after they had gone and said, quietly "You're right. He's definitely 'out of focus.'"  
  
*********  
  
Transitions12  
  



	3. Chapter Three

  
CHAPTER 3  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen, in just five centons the defending champs, Gold Team, Captain Apollo and temporary partner Sergeant Barton, will attempt to defeat this season's first place winners, Blue Team, Lieutenant Boomer and Sergeant Greenbean. Barton, of course, is filling in for Lieutenant Starbuck, who is on the disabled list for several more sectons. The victors will advance to the Triad Championship Game." The voice of IFB announcer Zed echoed through the triad arena, as well as through every vidscreen in the Fleet that was tuned to the impending game. The roar of the crowd rose like a wave at his words, then receded, to be punctuated intermittently by the whistles, shouts, and cheers of eager fans.Even for the spectators, the fortunate few to have a live view of the game, waiting in the arena seating above the triad court, vidscreens were positioned at various locations to provide a full range of coverage. Replays, slow motion shots, close ups - every possible view the diehard triad fan could want. The added coverage for the spectators was an experiment at enhancing the overall triad experience.  
  
Zed's face was replaced by a slow scan of the spectators eagerly awaiting the entrance of the two teams. "I'd have to say that I see an equal number of gold colors as blue - no clear favorites among the fans present today!" His words immediately spawned a shouting match as each side tried to drown out the other. As the videocam continued to scan the audience, the people waved excitedly, or hooted, or mouthed a friendly message to the viewers.   
  
The camera paused as it captured a particular group of spectators. "We see that Gold Team has the support of the sidelined champ, Lieutenant Starbuck, here to lend a mental hand, at least!" Zed's voice seemed to emphasize every other word as he spoke. Starbuck, unlit fumarello in hand, arms across the seats on either side of him, sat flanked by Cassiopeia on one side and Lieutenant Sheba, bridge officer Rigel, and the commander's beautiful dark-haired daughter, Lieutenant Athena, on the other. Surrounding them all were some of the women triad players, most notably, Dietra and Brie, the reigning champs.   
  
As the camera paused and zoomed in closer, he leaned over to lightly kiss Cassiopeia on the cheek, then waved with the hand he had draped over her shoulder, fumarello and all. To his left, Sheba was talking quietly with Rigel and Athena until she noticed the view on the vidscreen. Stopping, she looked away, uncomfortable, as Zed's voice boomed out: "Our defending champ certainly found a prime seat to watch from - we've got a number of the defending and challenging teams from the women's teams gathered to watch, as well!"   
  
Starbuck grinned and waved again as the camera moved on to focus on the other champions, Dietra and Brie. Zed's voice continued above the noise of the crowd as he expounded on their record and hopes for another victory in the next secton. The view dissolved back to the court as a horn sounded. "Ladies and gentlemen, the challengers - Lt. Boomer and Sgt. Greenbean!" A roar erupted as the Blue Team fans attempted to prove that the professional wagerers were mistaken about who was favored to win. On the court, Boomer and Greenbean trotted out, waving with both hands high in the air and saluting the crowd and their fans. Beneath their black helmets, their faces were confident; beneath the protective padding and skin-tight uniforms, their bodies radiated a belligerent readiness.  
  
Zed's commentary continued, but to the lieutenant became simply a part of the background noise. Starbuck, focused on the court below, felt the roar of the crowd and applauded with the rest, feeling the anticipation, the excitement, even though it was not from his usual vantage point. As the spectators quieted expectantly, Starbuck, still caught in the intensity of the moment, jumped slightly when he felt the light brush of Cassie's arm. Relaxing, he smelled the sweet scent of her fragrance as he placed the unlit fumarello between his teeth. He glanced at her face, noticing a radiance in her blue eyes, and an eagerness in her smile as she awaited the entrance of Gold Team. Was she more at ease now that he was not playing? She seemed to be absorbing the excitement and truly enjoying the moment.   
  
Sheba, too, sat forward on the edge of her seat, waiting impatiently. She wore a soft, silky maroon dress instead of her uniform, and Starbuck could not help but notice how softly her brown hair fell over her shoulders. . . what on Kobol was Apollo waiting for?   
  
Slipping his hand down Cassie's arm and intertwining his fingers with hers, he felt her squeeze and move closer. Maybe this wasn't so bad after all. Just having her so close, just being with one person. She had been so patient lately, so calming. The sudden knowledge that they had connected on a far deeper level pulled at him. Maybe it was time to consider . . . Hesitantly, he opened himself to these thoughts -- the idea of something more permanent. He felt a muted yearning that he had, for so long, silenced and denied. The eager need, though, was shadowed by the familiar claws of fear that he was so used to fighting against. The fear of emotional intimacy. Of the huge responsibilities that the heart's commitments bring with them . . . and the terror of exposing the dangerously frail and tender core of his soul. But when he momentarily let himself imagine a future shared with her, he felt a paradoxical and unfamiliar new contentment rise from within. It was unlike anything he had felt before.   
  
Briefly, he gazed at the assortment of feminine faces surrounding him, all staring raptly at the triad court below. More than a couple were faces from his past, sparking fleeting remembrances of bodies united in physical passion and brief gratification, but that had been over half a yahren ago or longer, he realized. He chewed on the fumarello as he enjoyed the surprising feel of the moment: a different, almost strange sensation, as if the warmth of Cassie's presence had reached into the cold, most untouchable fringes of his soul. For a brief instant, he consciously allowed himself to pull aside the fears and the barriers and felt what he knew no name to define. Completeness.  
  
"And the reigning champions - Gold Team, led by captain Apollo and represented by Sgt. Barton!" Zed's booming voice was drowned out. Apollo and his partner trotted out to the deafening uproar, grinning and waving to the crowd.   
  
The jolt was more than Starbuck had anticipated. The frustration and longing to be down there on the court burst through, shattering the fragile layer of contentment as he watched Apollo. The determined captain's muscles were tight and ready beneath his red and white uniform, and he bounced and flexed to loosen his arms and legs in preparation for the start of the game as he entered. Starbuck felt the adrenaline rush - followed by a building tension, a feeling of impotence, from being forced to watch from the sidelines only.   
  
And then he caught sight of the grinning face of his blond replacement. Starbuck's legs carried him to his feet, applauding with the rest of the crowd, but in his mind the roar seemed to die abruptly as he focused on one sight. Barton. Although he had watched the first game on a vidscreen during his last night in the Life Station, something was different this evening. Somehow, the feel, the smells, and the emotions of the live game seemed to jar his thoughts as his mind momentarily jumped back to the last time that he had played against Barton - and his former rival, Ortega.   
  
For a brief micron, scenes from the subsequent events flashed through his head. Ortega's leering face, challenging him. Apollo's impassive but blunt statement that Ortega was dead. The heavy, awful feeling as the commander spoke the words, "to the brig." The tight, claustrophobic cell. The agony of knowing he was innocent but seeing the doubt in everyone's faces. The overwhelming desire to escape. The fear. The panic. The pleading look in Apollo's green eyes as Starbuck pointed his laser at his friend as he attempted to launch, to flee. And the sudden realization of the absurdity, the hopelessness, -- the terror -- of what he had been about to do.   
  
Starbuck, trembling, shaken, willed his mind back to the present, forcing his gaze to Apollo down on the court and gripping the fumarello in his hand, clenching it tightly until his fingernails bit into his palm, sitting back down automatically as the crowd prepared for the start of the game. He welcomed the sharp pain in his back as he dropped roughly into his seat. He took several deep breaths, exhaling slowly, eyes closed, as he tried to calm his racing heart and recapture the shattered atmosphere, the excitement of the crowd and the game.  
  
Cassie glanced over at Starbuck, catching his grimaced look, seeing the red, sweatiness of his face. "Hey, you okay?" She gripped his other hand once more, squeezed.  
  
"Yeah. Just a cramp, that's all." He exhaled again, then forced a smile as he felt her hand slide behind his back to rub, soothing the muscles and slowly calming his nerves. The jumble of intense thoughts receded, but the mood was broken; instead of excitement and anticipation, he felt mostly a building headache from all of the tension.  
  
The roar of the crowd heightened, rising deafeningly, insanely. Below on the court, the combative game started as the players locked arms, hands to elbows, tugging, pulling, yanking, trying to anticipate the direction of the ball before it was ejected onto the court. Thigh muscles rippled, faces grimaced, tendons bulged. Sweat beaded and splattered and eyes radiated an unbridled aggression. They needed to win. They needed to defeat. To conquer. Abruptly, the ball shot out and the circle disintegrated into an aggressive tangle of bodies scrambling for possession as the play started.  
  
Nearly all eyes were on the players below as Boomer quickly snagged the ball and made a rebounding pass to Greenbean. In the audience, Cassiopeia, still looking at her companion, watched another battle, instead, as she continued to massage the middle of Starbuck's back. She could feel the intensity in the tightness of his muscles, could see the deep concentration in his eyes, could sense the turmoil as he longed to be down on the court with his team, defending his title, with his partner. And she knew that he was trying to control these feelings, to accept his position, to take it all in stride. But over the past ten days, as the physical injuries healed - slowly, too slowly for his restless nature - the growing frustration and tension were gradually winning the struggle, regardless of how strongly he denied it, even to himself. Cassie sensed that the dreams Starbuck was having were both a product of this struggle, as well as a part of the cause. She sighed and made a silent prayer that they could survive the stress just a few more days; once he could get back to his normal duties, all of this would fade into the past, she hoped.  
  
Turning her attention back to the game, Cassie watched the aggressive fight for victory, fierily fueled by the deafening roar as Apollo grabbed the ball off the deflection when Boomer's shot narrowly missed the goal. He twisted in midair to pass to Barton a micron before Greenbean gripped him around the waist to pull him down. Barton leaped - and missed the ball by a fingertip. Boomer had repositioned himself and caught the ball, twirled, and whipped off an open shot at the goal. The ball did not even graze the sides as it entered the hole. Part of the crowd cheered. The other voiced strong dissatisfaction at the missed catch. Starbuck pounded his knees and shouted angrily in Barton's direction, "How the frak could you miss that!"   
  
Cassie glanced at Starbuck's tense profile: the clamped jaw, the creased brow, the tight lips. It was going to be a long game.  
  
*****  
Cheers, curses, gleeful cries, angry shouts, ecstatic screams, outraged howls, all connected by the intense flow of adrenaline, gripped and permeated all souls - participant and spectator alike - and the battle raged on, with neither team able to secure the advantage. As the end of the first half approached, the score was tied, 2-2. Loyal friend became fierce foe as Boomer and Apollo, jumping for the careening ball, slammed roughly into each other, shoulder to shoulder. Without conscious thought, Boomer jammed an elbow into his captain's ribs, knocking him away enough that the lieutenant could snag the ball, twist as he fell, and hurl the pass at his partner. Boomer landed in a heap on top of Apollo, barely noticing the loud. pained grunt as he knocked the wind out of his opponent. Scrambling up, he saw Greenbean's shot sail into the goal a micron before the buzzer sounded the end of the first half. "Yes!" he cried, jumping up and down and pumping the air with his fists.   
  
As the bell marking the successful goal rang out amid the clamor of cheers and angry, frustrated shouts, Starbuck leaped to his feet, shouting, "What?! He was fouled! Where's the penalty call?!" He pounded his thighs with his fists as he continued hotly, "What a blind bunch of equine astrums!" He was glaring at the officiators' booth as he continued, "Wake up and pay attention, you idiots!"  
  
The camera, which had been scanning the audience to highlight the contrasting reactions, caught sight of the furious lieutenant and eagerly zoomed in. Acutely aware of the view on the vidscreen and the stares from the surrounding people, Cassie and Sheba both reached up to pull Starbuck by his jacket back to his seat, saying in unison, "Sit down!"  
  
"Didn't you see that?!" he yelled, jabbing a finger at the court where Apollo was slowly climbing to his feet, puffing, holding his bruised side as he struggled to catch his breath. He moved slowly to the corner of the court with Barton to recuperate and drink some fluids before the start of the second half. Then Apollo, too, noticed the scene displayed on the monitor. Looking up to where his sidelined partner still gestured angrily, he glared at him before sitting down in exhaustion, shaking his head.  
  
"It was a fair block," Sheba insisted, placing a hand on Starbuck's shoulder. It was not easy watching Apollo in pain, either, but she also knew that it came with the game - and Boomer's move, while rough, had been clearly legal.  
  
Still outraged, the lieutenant shook his arm free and shouted hotly at his friend. "Are you serious? Just whose side are you on? There's no way that score should have counted!"  
  
Sheba, insulted and hurt, quickly felt her own anger rising and was about to respond when Cassie cut in, "Starbuck, relax!"   
  
She put a hand on his arm and touched his back again, pressing firmly on the center vertebra. She met his blazing gaze with a steady look of her own. The silent but unmistakable message to calm down finally penetrated his ire as Cassie pressed and twisted a bit, the pressure on his back triggering a release. Opening and closing his mouth a couple of times, panting almost, as the fire subsided, he glanced at Sheba and her angry frown. Looking away, he mumbled, "I didn't mean to. . . I mean . . . sorry . . ." His voice trailed off.  
  
Sheba's face soften. "Forget it!" She ignored the lingering hurt and tried to make her tone playful. "Hey, we've still got the second half - anything can happen!"  
"Yeah, of course." Starbuck stared at his teammate and replacement sitting in the corner of the arena, and felt the angry frustration fading into painful resignation. And the growing headache began to pound at the base of his skull.  
  
  
*****  
After ten centons of relative calm, the crowd once again swelled to a roar as the second half commenced. Competing chants for each team punctuated the atmosphere as the ball shot out into play. With a renewed vigor, the players feigned, and sparred, and jostled, and battered each other for possession of the ball. More than once, it was evident that Barton was not matching Apollo's expectations either; the expressions on his face, more and more, frequently reflected frustration as his temporary partner missed passes and shots that would normally have been trademark moves for Gold Team.   
  
And Blue Team was quick to capitalize on the mistakes. As the period progressed, slowly Boomer and Greenbean lengthened their lead. Feeling the imminent victory, tasting the salty sweat of the impending defeat of their rivals, the two fought viciously: hammered ribs with elbows, smashed with body blocks against the wall, slammed fists and shoulders into heads. At one point, Greenbean snared the ball on the rebound after a missed shot and drilled it into the goal triumphantly. Apollo turned to pound the wall again in agonized frustration, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, face twisted. He shouted with each pound of his fists: "Frak! Frak! Frak!" The score was now 7-4 in favor of Blue Team.  
  
For the fans of Gold Team, the mood was black, the tempers short, the shouts intense, outraged, and unforgiving as they jeered the missed opportunities. Some simply sat in disgust, staring numbly at the action, tears of frustration stinging their eyes while forced to witness helplessly the painful course of the defeat. The contrast with the euphoria of the Blue team fans was stark. They whooped and cried, dancing on their feet, with each successful move. And it was evident that Barton was feeling the pressure, because the louder the spectators yelled, the harder he tried, and the worse his moves became. He was sweating, shaking from more than just the exertion. The seemingly inevitable outcome of the game was written on the pained and tormented faces of many.  
  
In the stands, Cassie watched one such face with a sense of resignation. Starbuck sat tensely in his seat, glaring at the action on the court below, rumbling curses under his breath like the stirrings of a volcano. His thin layer of self-control was being pounded by the inner enraged and impotent frustrations.  
  
********  
  
In the quiet of the commander's office, Adama sat with his close friend, Colonel Tigh, watching the game on the vidscreen. At witnessing Blue Team's latest goal, the colonel ran a hand down his face and gave an exasperated, pained sigh. Technically, they were both on duty, but given the quiet status of the Fleet, no one complained when the two had withdrawn to watch the game. In fact, the bridge crew were "performing" their duties while watching the game, as well, with all intership monitors tuned to the IFB. Colonel Tigh, a die hard triad fan and unabashed supporter of Gold Team, had long since given up pacing and glaring at the vidscreen to slouch moodily on the long sofa that sat against the wall in Adama's office.   
  
Adama gazed at his friend in amusement as he sipped a cool seltzer and lounged with his feet propped on his desk, enjoying simply the easy atmosphere of not being on constant alert. Unlike Tigh, he watched the games with a passing interest, mainly because of how important they were to Apollo, Boomer, Starbuck, and all of the players, as well as most people in the Fleet. As an emotional and physical outlet, the games were invaluable to the well-being of the Fleet. They were cathartic, because even expressions of anger were healthy at the appropriate times, so that the oppressed, high-pressured lives of the Fleet's population could find a regulated and organized release. The pent up, concealed emotions would be what tore their fragile society.  
  
Although sympathetic to his friend's frustration, Adama also could not pass up any opportunity to rib him a bit, especially since, most of the time, they had to maintain their detached, professional faces while on the bridge. Private times such as this were all too infrequent. So Adama's mouth twitched in a smile as he said, "It would appear that Apollo's partner is no match for Boomer and Greenbean . . ."  
  
"He can't even catch a simple rebound! He -- " The indignant colonel stopped as he noticed Adama's eyes gleaming. in satisfied amusement. He had done it again: sparked a reaction with a few quiet but carefully chosen words. Tigh sank back in his seat and gave his friend an openly exasperated look that clearly stated without words, "Must you be so annoying?"   
  
"You must admit that it's nice to see Boomer and Greenbean winning for a change," Adama continued in a more serious tone, trying both to ease Tigh's intensity and put the proper perspective on the games. "Apollo's going to be disappointed," he continued, his thoughts drifting a bit. "But it will give them something to discuss until the games start again the next season."  
  
Regaining his objectivity, Tigh added, "Well, given Barton playing instead of Starbuck, Boomer and Greenbean are still going to have to prove themselves to a lot of people." He gave a big sigh and turned his attention back to the vidscreen, feeling sufficiently calmed to watch the final centons.  
  
Adama nodded but said nothing. Instead, he gazed thoughtfully at the monitor as the game played on. Even through the distant view of the camera on the vidscreen, the commander could read his son's frustration. As a father, Adama's heart ached whenever one of his children was in distress. But a part of him also recognized just how unfair this was going to be for Barton. As a commander, he felt a responsibility for all of his warriors, and having a more detached perspective of the game allowed him to see something that most, in the heat of the moment, were probably going to miss: Apollo had not adapted to playing with a different partner, but instead, he had expected Barton to step into Starbuck's place and play like his friend. Adama knew, because he knew his son, that Apollo's expectations had sabotaged the game as much as Barton's inability to play not with his style, but as someone else.   
  
*****  
The numbers on the game clock read twenty microns. Nineteen, eighteen, . . . the score was 8-4. Boomer grabbed the ball from a misdirected pass from Barton and spun to aim yet another shot at the goal. As his opponent turned, Apollo caught sight of the confident, triumphant grin on his face - and snapped. His features distorted in fury, the captain rammed himself full force into Boomer, shoving with both fists as they slammed against the wall. As he let his body smash against the lieutenant's, carried by the momentum, he wanted Boomer to hurt, to feel the pain, to feel the agony. He wanted desperately to change the reality . . .  
  
The officiator's buzzer cut through the roar, the indignant cries and howls of the crowd, signaling the penalty. "Apollo, unnecessary roughness. Free shot, Boomer."  
  
In the audience, Starbuck erupted, leaping to his feet. "What the frak are you doing?" he screamed at Apollo. "Don't you realize that move is going to give them yet *another* shot? Where's your 'I'm-Captain-Apollo-and-always-in-control' self-control?" He sat back down abruptly, oblivious to the stares from all around, his fury subsiding again to the angry, molten glare.  
  
On the court, The captain's chest was heaving, gasping for breath, as he climbed to his feet, and he was visibly trembling. He backed up from his fallen opponent, angrily brushing off Barton when he tried to help. Fighting to regain control, he stood, breathing heavily, hands on hips, staring at the floor and seeing only the painfully fresh memories of the constant mistakes replaying through his mind. Boomer stared at his friend as he climbed slowly, stiffly to his feet and moved to take the penalty shot.  
  
"Cool it, Apollo!" Boomer growled loudly between breaths, fighting to keep his own temper in check.  
  
"Well, *you* aren't exactly playing lightly tonight, either!" Apollo spat out the words as he watched Boomer prepare for the free shot.  
  
Distracted, Boomer's throw narrowly missed the goal, and the ball bounced off to the right.  
  
With one final, desperate burst of energy, Apollo leaped and grabbed the ball. Viciously, he drilled the pass at his partner. Barton managed to catch the ball against his chest, turn, and fling it at the goal. It sailed through the hole as the buzzer sounded.   
  
Game over. Blue Team victorious 8-5. The crowd exploded in wild cheers, shouts, and whistles. Apollo and Barton stood apart, breathing heavily, each avoiding the other's gaze, as Boomer and Greenbean whooped, leaped, and ecstatically embraced each other. The celebration continued for several centons as they circled the court, hands held high, saluting the cheering crowd, riding high on the jubilant feelings. Finally, the euphoric wave subsiding a bit, Boomer slowed to catch his breath. Glancing at the captain, his eyes locked for an instant with Apollo's. In that micron, time froze; he saw not a defeated opponent, but a friend, a close friend, in anguish. The victory was suddenly tempered with regret at the price.  
************  
  
They had showered and changed in silence, each avoiding the other's gaze. Apollo watched Barton's back for a moment, while the sergeant slipped on his flight jacket and ran a hand through his blond hair, sighing heavily, and staring blankly, wearily, at his locker, motionless, for a moment. Even from behind, the tenseness in his jaw was evident as he clenched and unclenched his teeth and breathed in deep, slow, controlled breaths.  
  
After the post-game interviews with the IFB, and the ridged, pleasant exterior they had forced for the cameras, both had rushed to escape to the locker room and to try to put the game behind them. Thirty-five centons later, as the immediate passion faded, Apollo was left with the jagged, biting edge of frustration and the heavy feeling that he had let Barton down, somehow. Though not as intense, Apollo still felt anger.  
  
But shame, too. Shame at his lack of control. He could eventually deal with the loss, he thought, but as he pulled himself back from the events of the game, as he was able to take a more rational look at what had happened, he realized the unfairness of his behavior on the triad court.   
  
The captain ran a hand down his own face and brushed the strands of wet hair back over his ears. The silence, as he slowly slipped on his jacket, was broken only by the muffled murmuring of voices from the crowd in the corridor outside the locker room. Inside, it was oppressively still. He glanced again at Barton, who had reached for his holster. Apollo needed to make amends. Barton was a good player and a good pilot for Red Squadron. He just could not leave with this tension between them.  
  
"Barton," he finally called to the sergeant's back, forcing the word out.   
  
"Hm?" Barton turned to glance at the captain, then looked quickly down at his holster as he adjusted it around his waist.  
  
"Look, I owe you an apology." Apollo fought the awkwardness and kept his eyes on Barton, who looked up to finally meet his partner's gaze. The captain continued, the words coming more easily now. "I acted like an astrum, and I didn't give you a chance out there. It's just that -"  
  
"Hey, forget about it!" Barton's mouth turned up in a faint, weary smile. He would expect no less from the Blue Squadron strike commander. Apollo's eyes radiated sincerity. Barton said with a sigh of resignation, "I knew it wouldn't be easy trying to replace Starbuck - I've seen you guys play first-hand, remember?"  
  
Apollo felt a sudden easing in the atmosphere. The tension had been broken; although the defeat was still a heavy weight, the personal mistakes and missed plays still fresh with each, a layer of resentment had been swept aside. He smiled in genuine relief. "I'll buy you a drink in the Lounge later as we help Boomer and Greenbean celebrate, okay?"  
  
"Sure." Barton straighten after making the final adjustments to his holster's leg strap, his confidence returning. "You know, I don't think I've seen you that rattled before in a game."  
  
Apollo let out a quick breath, still acutely and painfully aware of the evening's events. "Don't remind me! This was *not* what I'd call one of my better -"  
The sounds of the crowd outside abruptly spilled into the locker room as the door slid open. Both turned to see Starbuck, characteristic grin in place, step partway in as he said loudly, "Hey! If you guys are finished comparing missed points, let's go commemorate our defeat!"  
  
Apollo felt a flash of irritation, followed by the sudden wish that he could just head back to the Galactica on the first empty shuttle, and leave the embarrassing game behind. He stared angrily at the lieutenant, unnerved and annoyed. "*We* are coming," he said in a low voice. "Just hold on." He turned and touched Barton on the shoulder briefly in a silent apology. "Don't forget I owe you that drink."  
  
The flight sergeant, noting the captain's strained expression and feeling disconcerted, as well, with Starbuck's flashy impatience, nodded and said, "Yeah . . . just go on without me. I'll be there shortly." Apollo returned the nod, then followed his friend out the door.   
  
Trailing behind Starbuck as he crossed into the noisy corridor, Apollo glanced around at the assortment of people. Cassie and Sheba were leaning against the wall opposite the locker room, looking relaxed and at ease. Cassie had the twitch of a smile and looked amused at her companion's impatient behavior. Sheba's eyes seemed to sparkle when she saw him approaching, Apollo noticed.   
  
In addition, a handful of spectators remained, and, to his left, several paces down the corridor, Boomer and Greenbean were talking once more to an IFB reporter. The captain grimaced inwardly at the sight. Although the reporter and the cameraman had their backs to him, Apollo recognized the reporter: Rivaldo. The man was pushy, unscrupulous, yet the most popular reporter among the masses because he always twisted any story to make it overly sensational and melodramatic. The captain caught Boomer's eye over their shoulders. The lieutenant glanced quickly and briefly skyward to signal his growing impatience with the current, interminable proceedings.   
  
Starbuck, too, chewing on another already-battered fumarello, glanced at Boomer and the IFB setup, then switched his gaze back to Apollo as they stopped in front of Cassie and Sheba, waiting for Boomer and Greenbean before heading over to the Rising Star Lounge. Apollo caught his friend's eye and tried to convey a silent admonition that he was in no mood for the banter. He noticed, in that instant, that Starbuck's smile did not reach his blue eyes; Apollo knew that, as usual, such a subtly staged set of appearances was actually hiding a whole different drama in behind his friend's outward mask.  
  
And the lieutenant seemed oblivious to Apollo's warning look as he teased, "Well, buddy, not one of our finer moments."   
  
"Starbuck, not now, please!" Apollo stared sternly at him again, his voice growing slowly louder.   
  
Starbuck tapped his friend on the shoulder as he continued, "Maybe they should make a vidlesson with this game on how *not* to play -"  
  
"Drop it! I'm not in the mood for this!" Apollo pulled back, fighting the anger unsuccessfully.   
  
"Calm down, Apollo!" Sheba interjected quietly but firmly, aware that the crowd still gathered was throwing glances at them. She hesitated, wanting to move towards him, uncertain of what his response would be.   
  
Normally, he could, at least, put up with Starbuck's jokes when the timing was inappropriate, or the lieutenant was perceptive enough to stop; neither was happening at that moment. A missed connection. The captain's irritation was mounting quickly. Apollo glanced at Sheba and Cassie, who were looking a bit unsure and troubled by the exchange. Sheba's brow was creased and she chewed her lip. Cassie stepped forward to place a gentle hand on Starbuck's chest, trying to distract him. The IFB interview droned on in the background, and a few passers-by gave sympathetic looks or said, "Nice try!" Apollo forced a weak smile for the fans and ignored the IFB.  
  
Starbuck's grin faltered momentarily. "Well, how else am I supposed to deal with the destruction of our reputation?"  
  
"Starbuck!" Cassie knew that the frustration beneath those words went beyond the triad defeat. Unfortunately, Apollo was becoming the focus of his inner turmoil, a turmoil spawned by feelings from recent events that had been denied, repressed, and buried deep within.   
  
Apollo's face had become deliberately impassive. "Look, you keep saying 'our.' Well, I don't remember seeing *you* on that court." Apollo stood very still and said, in a low, cold voice, "This was *my* game and *my* screw up!"  
  
The smile finally faded as Starbuck pointed the fumarello in the captain's direction. "Oh, I understand." He ignored Cassie's attempts to hold him back, to dissuade him, as the outward calm crumbled. "No wonder this was such a screwed up game. I don't believe you saw anyone else but yourself out there."  
  
Apollo said nothing, but the slight paling in his face, the brief flickering of his eyes, and the tensing in his jaw, indicated the words had hit hard. He stared at his friend, silent, his eyes cold and challenging.   
  
Like the waters pressing and spraying through the cracks in a dam, the repressed emotions had to find a release. Starbuck could not stop. "Actually, there're lots of things you seem not to see." He shot a look at Sheba, whose face went red.   
  
"Quit it now, Starbuck!" Cassie said firmly, and he glanced at her finally. "What are you -"  
  
"Are you through?" Apollo's words cut off her remark.  
  
"Look, buddy, we all need to face our truths now and then. You looked like you thought you were all-powerful out there. Do you always have to be in control of everything?"  
  
"And what would you know about control? This is hardly the image of you these days." The words were barely above a whisper.  
  
Starbuck's face reddened. Apollo's impassive exterior only exacerbated the inner rage. "Well, at least, I don't see myself as picture-perfect, as one of the Lords of Kobol." His rational mind was screaming at him to stop, but the pressure was too much. He continued, biting off the last two words, "You seem to think you can replace the God who's forsaken us."  
  
Without another word or look, Apollo turned on his heel and walked off in the opposite direction, leaving them standing there. Sheba glanced at Starbuck, her face grim, and hurried after Apollo. Several passers-by had stopped to stare.  
  
Starbuck, his mouth a thin line, avoiding all eyes, stared at the fumarello as the furor and frustration boiled for a few more moments. As the flood of emotions subsided, he threw it at the floor in disgust. Disgust at himself, mostly. "Felgercarb!" he muttered. He looked hesitantly up to meet Cassie's concerned gaze, then closed his eyes and rolled his head back. He felt tired now, so tired.  
  
"Why don't we just go back to the Galactica?" Cassie whispered after a moment.   
  
He felt her hand on his arm and opened his eyes again. "I wonder if Boomer and Greenbean -"  
  
Starbuck turned as he spoke and found himself face to face with the IFB reporter. The videocam stared straight at him. The mental gears ground to an abrupt halt as they struggled to regain control and switch directions. He forced the grin back. A quick glance behind the IFB crew showed Boomer and Greenbean watching, arms crossed, faces bemused. Starbuck said, "Well, there won't be much celebration left if we don't -"  
  
Rivaldo ignored him, cutting him off. "So what does the former champ think of tonight's defeat for Gold Team?"  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Starbuck could see that Barton had emerged from the locker room and was standing just to the right of the door. The lieutenant refocused back on the camera and answered automatically, feeling oddly disconnected, as his voice said the appropriate words, yet his mind was racing to find an escape. "It'll give us something to fight for next season."  
  
Starbuck tried to move in Boomer's direction, but the reporter stood squarely and firmly in front of him, continuing, "How different do you think the game would have been had you been playing?"  
  
The lieutenant glanced uncomfortably again at Barton, who was watching and listening, his face expressionless. "I'd like to think it would have been different, since we've played together much longer. Now -"  
  
Rivaldo seemed to sense every move Starbuck made to end the interview and promptly interrupted again with another question. "How difficult was it to watch from the sidelines as your team lost?"  
  
The light from the videocam glared harshly in his face. Starbuck took a deep breath, shifting on his feet, feeling the frayed hold on his temper slipping again. "It was hard, okay." His voice came out louder than he intended. "Now we would like to just go on." He glanced at Boomer and Greenbean, who were visibly enjoying his predicament, not aware of just how shaky his control was. He tried once more to move forward. "Blue Team deserves their toast, so if we could just be --"  
  
The man stood firm and looked the lieutenant directly in the eyes. Normally very perceptive, Starbuck was too frustrated to notice that the IFB reporter's smile had taken on a cold, hard edge. His voice still held the same casual tone as he asked, "How do you feel about the suicide of Captain Connly?"   
  
The abrupt shift in the conversation threw Starbuck totally off guard. All he could manage was "What?"  
  
Rivaldo blazed ahead. "Since you were the one who uncovered the plot by Connly and prevented the mutiny, how do you feel about this latest turn of events? Do you hold the view - as some do - that it's for the better, since that's one less mouth to feed in the Fleet?"  
  
It took a micron for the true meaning of the reporter's last statement to sink in. Starbuck stared at him, blinking, then the dam burst. The tumult of anger, frustration, and deeply denied feelings came crashing through.   
  
"Starbuck, don't!" Cassie shouted.  
  
With a hard shove from both hands, Starbuck knocked the reporter to the ground, furious. "You frakking idiot -!" he sputtered.  
  
Despite the burning pain in his back caused by the sudden movement, Starbuck had every intention of grabbing the reporter and hauling him to his feet. Boomer and Greenbean, blocked by both the camera and the fallen man, rushed to find a way to intercept their enraged friend. A look of panic swept across the reporter's face as Starbuck swiftly advanced on him, and he scrambled backwards. A cheer and shouts of encouragement went up from the people who had been standing around and watching the proceedings.  
  
Starbuck was oblivious to them. He was milimetrons from reaching the reporter, when a pair of hands grabbed him by the left arm and hauled him back. He turned his head to see Barton holding him, yelling, "Starbuck! Calm down!"  
  
The effect was anything but calming. Illogically, his rage refocused on the man who had replaced him in the game. He swung with his free right arm, intending to knock Barton away from him, but more hands grasped him tightly. Boomer had finally pushed past the cameraman and the backpedaling reporter to reach the lieutenant. He gripped his friend tightly from behind, wrapping his arms over Starbuck's, and growled into his ear, "Stop it! Stop it! Get a hold of yourself! Everyone in the Fleet is watching this!"  
  
Starbuck swung his head around to see the videocam a mere metron from him. Boomer's words and their implication finally penetrated his rage. As other emotions swamped the anger, the tight cramping from the protesting muscles in his back grabbed his attention, too. Groaning, he sagged back against Boomer. "Oh, Lord!" he mumbled, both from the pain and from the realization of what he had just done.  
  
  
*****  
  
The post-game interviews had indeed been broadcast live throughout the Fleet. Commander Adama and Colonel Tigh had been relaxing and enjoying a few more centons of quiet before returning to the bridge. The vidscreen still flashed scenes and droned on softly, while the two friends sipped the last of their drinks and just talked. Tigh had been recounting one of his experiences from his younger days as a triad player. He was engrossed in his tale, imitating old moves, when he noticed a deepening frown on Adama's face. Puzzled, he followed the commander's line of sight to the vidscreen. He focused on the monitor in time to see Boomer grabbing a hold of Starbuck and pulling him away from Barton. With the volume low, neither had heard the exchange, but Adama had seen all too clearly one of his warriors displaying unacceptable public behavior.  
  
"What in Kobol's name does he think he is doing?" Tigh stared in disbelief.   
  
He quickly turned up the volume. The reporter's voice emanated through the vidscreen as the camera captured Starbuck's grimacing face. ". . . appears to be caught up in the wild emotions of this evening's game."   
  
The angle broadened to include Boomer and Cassiopeia. Cassie had her hand on Starbuck's shoulder, staring at him in concern while he breathed in deep, puffing breaths. Boomer had released his friend and was motioning to the camera. His voice could be heard in the background under the reporter's words as he said sternly, "That's enough, okay! Can we just go on in peace?"  
  
The camera swung back to the reporter, who gave a wide, satisfied grin, saying, "That's all for tonight's post-game interviews as this game goes down as one of the more intense - both before and after!" The screen darkened as the camera faded out.  
  
Tigh jabbed the off switch and turned to see Adama still staring at the blank screen, his hand to his chin and his lips a thin, frowning line. He finally looked at Tigh and said, "Have Lieutenant Starbuck report to the Galactica and my office immediately. Let's find out what that was all about."  
  
"Yes, sir!"   
  
*********  
  
"Apollo!"   
  
From behind, Sheba's soft voice had reached through the captain's determined stride. He turned around and saw her slender figure standing at the end of the illuminated corridor. Starbuck's last words, stridently echoing in his mind, seemed to fade away.   
  
A little startled, Apollo could only think of how ambiguous Cain's daughter was. She was such a paradoxical blending of strength and tenderness. Even when she was not wearing her uniform, her pointed, belligerent posture cautioned anyone that she was a daredevil warrior. Yet, the vulnerable delicacy of her traits and an indelible femininity, overshadowing her manners, imbued Sheba with an almost ethereal grace. But it would be a mistake to believe in the simplicity of her obvious extremes; Apollo knew better. He knew he did not know how to deal with her. Still remembering that last meeting, alone with her aboard the Cylon fighter, he hesitated.   
  
Sheba measured his resistance and, in a few microns, her warrior's instincts told her that the captain's barriers were fraying. His hesitant manners indicated for her to approach.   
  
She moved towards Adama's son and smiled warmly at him. The bold Blue Squadron leader blushed awkwardly. "Where are you going?" she finally asked, an almost palpable tension hanging between them.   
  
"Well, Boxey was watching the game with the other kids. I'd better pick him up now that I won't be celebrating ..."   
  
"You'll spoil Boomer's victory night, Apollo," she said, cutting him off abruptly. Seeing the slight tightening of his jaw, she realized how critical she must have sounded. Softening, she rested a hand gently on his shoulder. Moving even closer, her body's warmth, a simple physical contact, made the captain even more embarrassed and confused. He quickly averted his eyes.   
  
"I don't want to spoil anybody's night, Sheba. It was Starbuck who..."   
  
"We're not talking about Starbuck, Apollo!" She cut him off again. "I'm not questioning Starbuck's behavior. I'm questioning yours."   
  
"My behavior?" Apollo was slightly unnerved with her pointed remark. Sheba never simulated emotions, she would not know how to do it. She was as transparent as tylinium.   
  
"I thought we could be a bit more accepting of our differences, here in the Fleet." Especially you, of all people. On the Pegasus..."   
  
"We're not _on_ the Pegasus!" Apollo retorted, stressing the words, but already regretting his impulsiveness.   
  
"Yes... I know." Sheba lowered her eyes now for the first time, as she twinged at the memories of her father and the Battlestar Pegasus, forever lost for her now.   
  
Again, that unexpected shift of emotions mesmerized Apollo, confusing him as to how to react to her. Taken aback, he sighed and spoke softly "I know you're having a difficult time, Sheba. Just forgive me. I'm not myself tonight."   
  
Sheba raised her eyes to find the captain's attractive face close to her. His sharp green eyes, framed by thick black eyelashes, in exotic contrast, were of an intense gaze. How many times had she seen this same gaze, piercing through her lonely dreams? Lonely dreams she used to drift to, in her quarters aboard the Galactica's endless nights. But he spoke of different things then...   
  
Now he was tormented, heightening the seriousness of any ordinary situation, as always. But she could distinguish a slight glimmering of awareness sparking in those eyes. He knew of her dreams. And she didn't mind being that exposed.   
  
  
"Then, you just come back to yourself right now! Forgive Starbuck, or, at least, ignore him, and don't spoil our night," she pleaded with what sounded more like an order to Apollo's ears, instead. Her wide, dark eyes were no less captivating to him, as well.  
  
He sighed deeply again, but Sheba's authoritative demeanor made him repress a chuckle. She was not Serina. She was a contrasting kaleidoscope of many emotions. Tightly locked into his grief, wearing it like a shield, Apollo could not allow himself to expose his shredded heart again. Warriors were supposed to protect what was fragile, not to give it away.  
  
"I'll come back to myself, Sheba!" he conceded. "As long as I'm given a chance to cool off, okay?"  
  
"But what is it that Starbuck said to you to make you so edgy? I know that this game's struck some nerves, but it doesn't become you to overreact the same way Starbuck did!" she demanded.   
  
The captain shook his head helplessly and glanced at the corridor,  
tentatively thinking to walk away. But the pleasant sensation of Sheba's hand, touching his arm again, held him back, "He just shouldn't have said that..." he muttered.   
  
"Said what?"   
  
"That I'm always trying to control everything as if I were playing God!" Apollo's voice grew louder and exasperated, the defensiveness revealing the soft spot. Sheba said nothing, expecting that, once he had started, he would release his emotions. "And you know what? He's right! I've been spending every micron of my life feeling so obsessively responsible for everyone else's lives aboard this fleet, that I myself feel like that!" he said while pacing around the floor. "Just like I were trying to make up for an absent God, who seems to have forsaken us in the first place, just like Starbuck said!" he finally stated with sharp, self-irony.   
  
"Apollo! We all feel responsible for each other's lives. We don't want to perish! Your father, more than anyone else, carries this whole fleet's weight on his shoulders. But even he knows that there's only so much one can do..." Sheba said thoughtfully, her mind flashing back to vivid scenes of her father's battles and of so many others of human bloodshed and heroic deaths.  
  
"Sometimes, you seem to take it too personally, Apollo. You take too  
much upon yourself and that scares us all," she stared at him, reading in his troubled eyes that he did not want hear it. But she continued, "I can never tell whether you are trying to get yourself killed, or if you believe you're invincible...", she trailed off, suddenly, realizing that her words, in so many ways, expressed the same meaning as Starbuck's.   
  
The captain leaned his back on the wall, squeezing his eyes shut," I know what you all think. But it was not like that anymore, Sheba... At least, it wasn't until that frakking triad game." He exhaled deeply, assaulted by a myriad of different emotions. "I'm tired."   
  
Sheba shuddered. As much as she dreaded the strong-willed captain dooming his life in another suicidal mission against all odds, she also feared his certain death, should he ever give up one day. To her relief, his next words were not a fatalistic statement of defeat.   
  
"The Celestial Chamber, Sheba. The peacefulness I've been experiencing when I'm all alone up there in the dome. It's made me realize how tired I am of fighting as if I were trying to overpower some sort of destiny. It's not like playing God anymore," he confessed. "There have been moments where I know, with all my heart, that I don't need to. We are not alone. We are not doomed."   
  
Sheba could only stare at Adama's son, now sounding like a visionary double of his father.   
  
"Something different has been happening when I am up there..." He seemed hesitant to continue.   
  
"Something different?" Sheba probed.   
  
Apollo diverted his eyes, embarrassed, while he visibly struggled for adequate words, "I don't know how to explain that... but I swear that I sensed something... someone..."   
  
Sheba nodded slightly, encouraging him to go on. "I felt a... a Presence there with me, Sheba," he finally blurted out, and added with an almost confidential tone, "Whatever it is, it was communicating with me. Not through words, but through feelings. Powerfully enough to make me give in and understand. For the first time in my life, I felt I could really trust. Just trust that we can rely on something else beyond ourselves..."   
  
He opened his eyes, wide and green and almost passionate. Sheba noticed the same glitter in them that she had already seen in Adama's very own messianic eyes, "It was like... like I didn't have to be in control of everything anymore. For the first time, since the Destruction days, I really felt that I could finally let go of it... I mean, simply deliver it all and just have faith. Like... like instead of driving destiny all by myself..."   
  
". . .You were riding in the Hand of God," she continued sententiously, lost in her own thoughts. The warrior just stared at her again, thunderstruck. "No wonder Starbuck made you lose your temper out there, Apollo. He just aimed at the right target!" she added, still thoughtful.  
  
"Yes... ", he replied, shaking off his trance. "It seems that his powers of observation haven't lost much. I was having delusions that things could be different. I was back to being omnipotent at that triad court. He's right," he sadly stated, disgusted at himself.   
  
"Apollo," she pointed out, "you still are now! Give yourself a chance to fail!" Her laconic statement of truth making him look at her without amusement. "And give it to Starbuck too. He didn't know you'd be so sensitive about this!"  
  
"Oh yes, he did!" the captain retorted. He glanced quickly away from Sheba's warning glare. Starbuck's earlier taunting still hurt.   
  
"You're not being fair to him, Apollo."   
  
Well, if he didn't, better keep it that way. People will think I'm nuts. The practical one having messianic surges now!" the captain chuckled bitterly at himself.   
I believe you," Sheba said bluntly, silence punctuating her words. He looked at her, bewildered at her faith in him. Apollo felt a strange sense of relief, her deep sincerity filling in with substance the sketch of sensations he could barely grasp.   
  
"Apollo," she approached again. "You must trust me that I trust you, too. We all have learned to live within our walls. No harm can reach us through them..." She smiled sadly. "But no love can, either."   
  
The dark-haired warrior was taken aback again, as if shot by a laser. "Who taught you that? It wasn't possibly Cain!"   
  
"Yes, it was. His loss did."   
  
Apollo felt tempted to embrace her. But when he finally brought himself to touch her, he could only rest his hand on her shoulder, squeezing it tenderly. "I guess I've just come back to myself again," he chuckled. "I'm coming back to commemorate with you."   
  
Sheba let out an exclamation of joy. Her face irradiated a childlike  
contentment as she slightly leaned on his touch. Apollo was enchanted, but not that confident that Cain's daughter would always be like that. He had seen that angel in battle. She was implacable. "But I won't promise I'll put up with Starbuck tonight", he cautiously warned, his voice still revealing grief.   
  
Even though what Starbuck had said was very close to truth, Sheba believed that the impulsive lieutenant was not aware of what he had done. A fragile flame of faith was fighting for existence and to not be extinguished in the captain's heart. He desperately needed to trust that there was a powerful hand above their heads. They all needed to.   
  
Even Starbuck.   
  
Sheba wondered if, beyond the lieutenant's misplaced intent to taunt his captain, he might also have given release to his own concerns about his best friend's self-righteous attitudes. The self-proclaimed womanizer and wagerer, with his nonchalant and selfish façade, never disguised his complete devotion and loyalty to his friends, though. Much especially, when Apollo was concerned. Apollo, by his turn, was no less devoted to that extraordinary bond, too.   
  
For all of the refugees, in their lonely quest among hostile stars, the war, and its poignantly cruel realization of how elusive human life really is, revealed a new dimension to the significance of relationships. Love and fear, magnified to unbelievable proportions, were giant enemy forces in mortal combat for survival, then. For each and every individual from that endangered species, friendships and bonds, overcharged by the eminence of death, implied urgent needs of perpetuation. An endless, exhaustive, constant alert and safekeeping.   
  
Like a magnet forever polarized, Apollo and Starbuck's friendship was such a bond to be kept perpetuated like that. It knew no limits and recognized no other force. Hence, its mythic strength. Along with Boomer, the incarnation of temperance, that balanced triad had formed an alliance capable of challenging the armies of Hades.   
  
Sheba decided to appeal to that bond. As she took his hands in hers, a slight electrical current passed through their bodies. She whispered lovingly, "Apollo, you know that something is wrong with Starbuck. You can't let him down. He needs help."  
  
Sheba had guessed correctly. The captain immediately seemed to put aside his brooding, while he frowned in concern. He kept his thoughts to himself, though. "Come on, let's celebrate the victory I've given to the Blue Team!"   
  
"The victory you've given?" the warrior lady teased, hands on her waist. "Has it ever occurred to you that you didn't give anything, but that Blue Team just, plain and shamefully, defeated you?"   
  
Apollo was puzzled at her mockery. "I don't understand these riddles of yours, Sheba..."   
  
Triumphantly, she nodded her head, facetiously inviting him to move on and follow her. "I knew you wouldn't! Let's go, all-mighty Apollo!"   
  
"Wait a micron!" The captain, still absorbing her remark, suddenly halted. "You won't start that, I mean, calling me a Lord of Kobol, too, will you?"   
  
Sheba smiled mischievously, "There was a Caprican philosopher from ancient times, I remember. He used to say that the loved one's face is the deity's altar upon which we used to pray, before Creation of times..." She pulled a charming doubtful face, pretending to decide whether to say the next words. "In a way, yes... you're one of the Lords of Kobol..." She shot.   
  
"Sheba!"   
  
With her amused eyes on him, and while walking backwards, laughing, apparently enraptured to get such awkward reactions from the stoic captain, she fired again. "To me..."   
  
Gazing at her, disarmed and perplexed, Apollo could swear he hallucinated for a few microns, as he saw another face disguisedly shimmering throughout Sheba's, a vanishing face made of white light. He shook off the feeling. The dark-haired captain gave up and smiled at himself resignedly. Her compliment -- he decided to take it as one -- softening Starbuck's harshness on the same subject. Frowning again, though, thinking about Starbuck, he hurried after her.   
  
They had barely reached the corridor's corner, when Boomer, looking anxious, appeared in their way. His voice was low but filled with concern. "Apollo, Starbuck is in trouble."   
  
Apollo stared at the lieutenant. Disbelief tinged with astonishment was the prevailing feeling that surfaced, followed by annoyance and exasperation. Only Starbuck could find trouble in less than ten centons. He suppressed a sigh as he asked, "What do you mean? What happened?" Sheba had stopped next to the captain; her face reflected his sentiments as she gazed from Apollo to Boomer, puzzled.  
  
"That reporter -" Boomer ran a hand over his hair, then continued, "He started pressing Starbuck in a interview, and Starbuck knocked him down. Barton and I kept it from getting any worse."  
  
They had started walking back towards the locker rooms. Apollo remained silent, absorbing the information. Before they rounded the last corner, Boomer stopped and turned to face his friends. He sensed his captain's disapproval and displeasure, though Apollo's face was impassive.   
  
In a quiet voice, he softly emphasized, "Starbuck was reacting to an insensitive remark the reporter made about Connly's death." He saw comprehension flicker across his friend's face. He continued, "The whole incident was being broadcast live, and the commander has asked for Starbuck to report to his office - immediately."  
  
Sheba shook her head. "By the Lords . . ."  
  
"At least, Greenbean and Barton were able to chase away the spectators and that IFB crew," Boomer added, his face distorting in distaste at the thought of the reporter.  
  
Apollo closed his eyes briefly, taking a long, slow, deep breath. "Let's go," was all he said finally, walking past Boomer, around the corner.   
  
The corridor in front of the locker rooms was quiet, empty finally, except for Starbuck and Cassiopeia. Starbuck's face was furrowed in what was quite obviously pain as he stood rigidly against the wall, eyes closed, breathing in long, controlled breaths. Cassie was pacing back and forth, looking nervous and impatient. She stopped and looked expectantly at the three as they approached. "The next shuttle leaves in ten centons," she said uneasily.  
  
Starbuck opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Apollo and the others approaching. His gaze slid past Boomer and Sheba, but locked with Apollo's for a brief moment before shifting away. In that fleeting instant, though, Starbuck perceived a coldness, the lingering hurt in his friend's eyes. The realization stung. "Look, Apollo. . ." The words would not form to express the sharp regret he felt. He knew that it would take more than a few passing jokes and beseeching smiles to repair this damage. "I didn't mean . . ."  
  
"Let's just forget about it. . ." Apollo said, cutting him off. The words "for now" hung in the air, unspoken, as the captain paused, pushing aside the resentment as he faced the lieutenant again.   
  
Sheba and Boomer both absorbed the interaction silently, and Cassie shifted from foot to foot, her nervousness at the impending meeting impossible to suppress. Starbuck's apparent resignation and outward calm only intensified her anxiety. The irony that she was more worried than he was struck her, as well.  
  
"Come on." Apollo motioned for all to follow, knowing that his duty now was as captain and superior officer, more than friend, but also that that duty included support, as well as impartiality.  
  
As the five headed towards the Rising Star's departure lounge, Starbuck recognized and accepted Apollo's official demeanor. Apologies and discussions would have to wait. For now, he had to deal with the consequences of his public loss of control. It was not the first time he had had to face his superiors, but Starbuck always felt like a daggit, when having to explain his deeds to them. 'Like a mongrel daggit,' Starbuck thought, already mentally rummaging through his wagerer's bag of tricks, ready-made sheepish smiles and charming ways. He knew, though, that they never worked on the wise commander and his colonel, but he believed he would not give up trying. 'Question of survival,', he weakly smiled, justifying himself, as he always did, while a strange and unexpected feeling of resignation seemed to, disturbingly, take over his spirit.  
  
"Well, I hope that Greenbean and Barton, at least, enjoy their celebration," he said just loud enough to elicit an unsmiling glance from the others.  
  
********  
  
  



	4. Chapter Four

Chapter FOUR  
  
Starbuck heard the door slide closed and sensed that Apollo, present as his captain, was standing several paces behind him, as he came to a stop in the middle of the commander's office. Without glancing around, he noticed that Adama sat impassively behind his desk, gazing at him, fingertips touching together lightly. Colonel Tigh, his face serious, his displeasure evident, stood off to the left next to the vidscreen. Boomer, Sheba, and Cassie waited outside. Boomer had wanted to support his friend, but the colonel's firm look had warned him not to press the issue. So Starbuck stood, alone, waiting, vaguely annoyed that even Apollo was following protocol at this moment, but fully aware that it was his duty.  
  
Quickly, Starbuck's mind ran back over the other times that he had had to face the censure of his commanding officers. For someone known as one of the Fleet's best warriors, the number was surprisingly high. Somehow, although he was loyally devoted to the commander and his duty as a Colonial warrior, his impulsive, rogue nature often landed him in trouble. When confronted with defending the lives of his friends or the Fleet's refugees, he was unwaveringly dependable and unquestionably dedicated; he would willingly sacrifice his own life, if it would save others.  
  
Yet, a part of him was ingrained to rebel against authority, after so many yahrens of surviving on his own, alone, in the streets of Caprica. Or in the foster homes where the adults either did not care, or worse, were openly abusive. Or where he refused to open himself to them, even if they did truly care. Or in the cold, stark, sanitary, emotionless orphanage, an institution where the children were little more than commodities to be fed, clothed, and shipped on, when possible.   
  
Thus, he still lived by his own rules when it came to dealing with the Military and Authority. And as a survival mechanism, he had learned to embrace adrenaline-filled, risky challenges, whether a high-stakes Pyramid game or a toe-to-toe shoot out with the Cylons; he had learned to live for the moment. And live with, if only grudgingly, the consequences as they came - if unable to connive or beguile his way out of the situation.  
  
Most of his official dressing-downs had resulted from sophomore pranks played on his fellow warriors, schemes that skirted the regulations, and fallout from his Pyramid wagers, which seemed to run either incredibly well -- or incredibly poorly. Mostly, he had had to listen to Apollo, his immediate superior officer, or to Colonel Tigh, who always faced him with a cold glare that barely concealed his exasperation. The consequences usually were several sectons of extra, undesirable duties.  
  
The only other time he had officially faced the commander had been after a not-so-friendly OC competition between some warriors and Colonial security guards had erupted into a fight. Then, Starbuck had instigated a drinking game, fully intending to ruffle the blackshirts' feathers and to emphasize the pilots' superiority. However, he had not counted on short tempers leading to an all-out brawl. The commander and the colonel had been rightfully livid, and the consequences had been costly for all involved.  
  
This time . . . this time was different. Aware of the disapproving faces of his superior officers, duty overriding friendship at the moment, and feeling the physical strain, as well, Starbuck felt acutely alone and unable to pull even the slightest of remorseful smiles; instead, he remained impassive and at attention, all emotion carefully locked away.  
  
Tigh's voice snapped his attention back to the matter at hand. "I'd like you to watch something, Lieutenant." The colonel's voice was a quiet, controlled politeness that reflected his dissatisfaction. He pressed a button, and the screen flashed on. Starbuck watched with an ironic fascination, experiencing a vague sensation of relived actions, as the interview replayed from the viewpoint of the camera. And the same emotions resurfaced briefly as he listened to the insistent reporter. Although he knew that his reaction had been out of line, the only regret he felt now, as the recording ended and he had to live with the consequences, was that his weak back muscles had prevented him from actually striking the man.  
  
"That scene has been playing repeatedly over the IFB since it happened, Lieutenant." Starbuck shifted his gaze from the dark vidscreen to the colonel, but said nothing. Tigh continued, "Officially, you know we cannot tolerate such unruly public behavior - regardless the circumstances. I don't need to remind you that, as a warrior, you are one of the few role models available for the people - especially the children -- in the Fleet. And one of our duties, now that everyone's lives are so restricted and confined, is to do all we can to support the morale."  
  
Surprisingly, Tigh's face softened a little and he approached, stopping to lean against the commander's desk, arms crossed. His movements were meant to lessen the formality of the moment. He smiled dryly as he said, "Unofficially, I'd have to say that your little incident will probably even boost the morale, at least for a while."  
  
"Sir?" Starbuck was perplexed. This was not the chewing out that he had expected and knew he deserved from the colonel.  
  
Tigh shook his head. "Appropriateness aside, your reaction was very human, Lieutenant. You did what others have felt like doing in the face of some of the impertinent questions the intrafleet media has been known to ask. And a little sensationalism can be good for morale, as well."  
  
"But." He narrowed his eyes to illustrate the shift back to his official duty. "That comment is not to leave this room." The colonel straightened, his demeanor cold and serious now. His voice was barely above a whisper as he spoke. "Just before you arrived we received a communiqué from the Council of Twelve. Apparently, most of them were watching the game and interviews, as well. They were questioning Adama as to whether he considered your behavior 'appropriate public relations.' In case you've forgotten that 'irrelevant' part of your theoretical training, Article 5, Section III, of the _Colonial Warrior's Duty and Ethics Manual_ deals with expected and appropriate behavior. Need I quote that for you?"  
  
Starbuck felt his face redden, despite his effort to maintain the detached mask. The embarrassment was heartfelt. The last thing he wanted to do was give the Quorum any reason to doubt the commander's efficiency.   
  
The colonel looked steadily from Starbuck to Apollo, who had remained silent and listening. "Such an incident is *never* to happen again. Understood?"   
  
The captain nodded slightly and coldly. But he was carefully studying Starbuck's unusual reactions.  
  
"Understood," Starbuck said quietly, uncharacteristically ashamed and taken aback.  
  
Tigh did not softened, though, and gave him the full benefit of his most disapproving glare as he pronounced after a moment, "Lieutenant, you will be docked a secton's pay, and will make a public apology for your actions. In fact, you'll have the perfect opportunity tomorrow, and I'll request that it be a part of the proceedings when introductions are made before the triad demonstrations start."  
  
Tomorrow. Both Starbuck and Apollo had forgotten what the next day's schedule held and both groaned inwardly. Far from forgetting the nightmare that this triad game had seemed to have become, they would be once more in front of the IFB cameras, in the role of former champions. They and a majority of the Fleet's triad players were to present a demonstration and clinic for the children of the Orphan Ship. And the event would be broadcast for all of the Fleet, the goal being to not only bring cheer to the orphaned children, but to help bolster the human spirit of all. While both had supported the idea wholeheartedly, the timing could not have been worse, it seemed.  
  
"Yes, sir." Starbuck managed not to sigh. He had felt less than enthusiastic, recently, knowing that he could not actively play, but he also recognized the importance both of his presence, as a part of the championship team, and of the need, now, to publicly correct his behavior.  
  
Tigh looked from Starbuck to Apollo to Adama. His gaze lingered on the commander, who nodded slightly, the captain noticed. The colonel straightened and said, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to attend to some other matters." He turned and exited without waiting for any response from the two warriors.  
As the door closed behind the colonel, leaving the two alone with Adama, Apollo sensed his father's concern and remained silent, waiting. His own feelings at the moment were a dichotomy of lingering anger towards and growing worry for his friend. His father knew Starbuck well enough to know that his overreaction with the reporter was a symptom of something else, a deeper problem.  
  
Starbuck shifted on his feet, uncomfortable for more than just physical reasons, as the commander slowly rose from his chair. Their relationship went well beyond lieutenant and commander, but they rarely spoke of it. That Adama viewed him as much a part of his family as Athena, Apollo, and Boxey, needed no words. Yet, he felt a pointed awkwardness whenever events forced him to openly acknowledge this bond. After so many yahrens without a father, he still did not know how to react when Adama assumed that role with him. Starbuck glanced around and finally kept his gaze on the floor.  
  
"Let's suppose that that had been Apollo on the screen," Adama said, choosing his words carefully as he stopped between the two warriors. He was fully aware of the lieutenant's discomfort, and wanted to avoid triggering the self-defense mechanisms that Starbuck so often sprang into place, when forced to face his own personal concerns. Avoidance and escapism were his first reactions, and Adama, as well as Apollo, knew that quite well. He continued in a casual tone. "You know that I would be very concerned about why he had behaved that way. I would do all that I could to help him work through whatever the problem might be."   
  
A feeling of love and admiration swelled within, as Apollo watched his father's tender approach towards the evasive lieutenant. He had used his fatherly diplomacy skills many times before with him, too, and with all of his children.  
  
The commander placed a light hand on Starbuck's shoulder, and the lieutenant glanced up to meet his gaze briefly. "Whatever it is that's been upsetting you, Starbuck, you must know that you're not alone. That we're here to help you," he said quietly. "We've all been through so much, and have had no time to deal with all of our personal tragedies." The commander, who carried the weight of all the human survivors on his shoulders, allowed, for a brief instant, the infinite sorrow to reflect in his dark, eloquent eyes. Not only had he suffered his own personal losses, but he had selflessly sacrificed his own needs for the wholeness of the Fleet. It was no wonder he was the epitome of strength for all warriors.  
  
Starbuck felt suddenly chagrined by not being able to master his emotional turmoil, having a role model so close. Adama sensed the man's trouble and seemed to read his thoughts. "You shouldn't be ashamed of your feelings, Starbuck," he said with gentle authority. "You must face them, instead, and tell us what's going on with you. So that we'll know how we can help."  
  
"Commander . . ." The lieutenant glanced briefly at Adama, then Apollo, before looking away, acutely uncomfortable. He stood with his hands on his hips, motionless, staring at the wall, unseeing. A part of him was searching desperately for an answer, an explanation, trying to form the right words. Yet the barrier was too great; it left him impotently unable to respond, to say anything.  
  
Adama let his hand drop from the lieutenant's shoulder and walked casually away, giving him more space, waiting.   
  
After several uncomfortably silent centons, Apollo approached his friend for the first time. Concerned by this uncharacteristic lack of reaction and the growing awareness that the trouble was deeper than he had first imagined, the captain put a hand on the lieutenant's arm. "Starbuck?"  
  
Starbuck, beginning to feel trapped, snapped his gaze to Apollo and shrugged him off, before looking away again. Despite his regret, the lingering tension from their previous disagreement only exacerbated his inability to face, let alone explain, any of this.  
  
"Starbuck!" Apollo, startled by the reaction, looked to his father, then at his friend. His patience gave way to uneasiness and his voice took on an unintended harshness. "Look, we just want to help. Ever since the business with Connly, you've been moody. And it's perfectly understandable why you'd be bothered by that episode with Sherok -"  
  
"No it's not!" Starbuck cut him off. The intense frustrations from everything that had happened that night finally broke through his last remaining defense. "You can't possibly understand! I don't even understand it!" He spat the words at Apollo. "And maybe you should worry about your *own* problems before trying to correct everyone else's." Starbuck finally turned away, breathing deeply, grasping for control again.  
  
"Come on, Starbuck! Cut the felgercarb!" Apollo felt his own frustration from the entangled feelings of deep concern, resentment, and anger rising quickly. "Father and I are just worried about you. Can't you see that?"  
  
"I - Look, just drop it! Okay?" A pleading edge had overtaken the anger. Starbuck stared at him fixedly for a moment, then switched his gaze to the wall.  
Apollo was hesitant, wanting to say more, but sensing the futility, for now. He finally just shook his head, in exasperation and defeat, and looked at his father.   
  
Adama barely suppressed a sigh as he witnessed the deterioration of any chance for further meaningful conversation. So much like brothers were those two at this moment. He had seen it among all of his children at different times, the hurtful words exchanged, actually hiding real concern and love.   
  
One more point, however, needed to be said, both as the lieutenant's commander and as the father he felt himself to be. "Starbuck," he said quietly but firmly, "I recommend that you talk to one of the ship's counselors." Starbuck flashed him a sharp glance, as the commander continued, "You know very well that the annual warrior exams include a psychological evaluation, as well as a physical. This is no different, really, since we want to be sure you are fit to return to active duty.  
  
"In fact," Adama shifted his gaze to his son, giving him a knowing look. "I think it might be prudent to recommend that all warriors undergo the complete evaluations as soon as possible. It is certainly overdue. Everyone has experienced so much in the past yahren, and we are only now, finally, able to allow ourselves the time to heal." Apollo felt acutely uncomfortable under his father's comprehending eyes.  
  
Adama returned his attention to the more immediate problem. "Starbuck," he said, "I leave the details up to you, but consider it a part of your overall final examination before you can be returned to active duty."  
  
"Yes, sir," was all the lieutenant said, but the words were clipped, as he retreated behind the formality.   
  
"Now, I think you both could use some rest. You are dismissed."  
  
Without looking at either, Starbuck slowly, deliberately, forced the calm exterior back in place, then exited the office quickly, not giving the captain another chance to approach him. Apollo, seeing the futility of any more attempts at discussion and feeling his own exhaustion seeping through, hesitated a moment longer, before saying simply, "Goodnight, Father." He followed his sullen friend through the door.   
  
Once out in the corridor, Starbuck barely glanced at his waiting companions. He knew he owed them a explanation - and apologies. But the need to escape was just too great; he walked briskly off towards the turbolift. Apollo, feeling discouraged, stopped after he crossed the threshold to stare wordlessly at Starbuck's back as he disappeared around the corner. While the last echoes of the lieutenant's footsteps faded away, a somber silence settled over the four friends. . .  
  
Alone in his office, as the door closed behind his son, the commander did sigh, finally, and closed his eyes.   
  
********  
  
The door to Cassie's quarters closed behind them. Starbuck stopped, his back against the entrance, finally just letting the throbbing, dull ache from strained muscles wash over him. And he welcomed the physical discomfort, for it gave him a focus, a distraction from the tumult of emotions from that evening. Yet, gradually, even the pain was eclipsed by the memories and sensations that kept surging through his mind: the intensity of the game, the anger and the frustration, the harsh words with Apollo afterwards, the deep regret now, the stupidity of losing control at the reporter's insensitive question, and the embarrassment, the deep, deep shame of facing the commander afterwards to explain actions he couldn't even explain to himself . . . He felt drained, haggard, and unable to face anything at the moment. He inhaled slowly, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, then exhaled wearily.  
  
They had barely spoken as he and Cassiopeia had headed back to her quarters. After avoiding his friends, he had walked hurriedly, determinedly, away. He had felt propelled by the swelling need to escape this endless and disastrous evening. And he had felt a rising anger as he had strolled, faster and faster, towards the turbolift. Anger at Apollo. Anger at himself. At everyone and everything. At no one. He had stopped, finally, forced to wait for the turbolift and wondering vaguely where he really wanted to go. Not back to the billet. No, he did not want to face anyone, not at the moment, because he knew the hold on his emotions and temper was tenuous, at best. And there were sure to be pilots still awake and ready to comment on that blasted triad game. So where? The fact that they were centons away from curfew slipped briefly into his mind, but was quickly overridden by the bitter knowledge that it really only applied to those on active duty.  
  
"Starbuck, wait!" Cassie's voice, loud, echoing down the empty corridor. He stood, hands on hips, staring at the floor, listening as she approached but not acknowledging her yet. Not yet, just another moment to be certain that he was in control again.  
  
"Starbuck!" The noisy hum indicated that the lift had arrived, but he waited, then turned to face her, finally, as she stopped next to him, panting, out of breath at having had to chase him down.   
  
"Cass, I'm sorry. . ." He trailed off, not finding the adequate words.  
"Where are you going?" she asked quietly, panting a bit, still winded. She gazed steadily at him.  
  
He shrugged, looked around, before saying at last, "I don't really know. I should be getting back."  
  
"Come with me?" she asked gently.   
  
He had, eventually, looked into her eyes. And something deep within them, something beyond words, had reached out to him. For the moment, he had given in to that feeling, saying nothing, as she had activated the turbolift door.  
He had followed her in, watching in silence, as she pressed the button for her level, not the squadron's. When the turbolift doors opened again, they had headed down the quiet passage towards Cassie's quarters; the only sound had been their footfalls reverberating on the cold metal floor. And as they had walked, Cassie had replayed the events of the evening in her head, analyzing, feeling a growing concern along with the unavoidable realization that Starbuck's troubles ran deeper than even she had been willing to admit to herself. She was worried. And she was angry, both with Starbuck and with herself, because she knew they had ignored the issue for too long. Perhaps if she had just been more insistent when the dreams had continued for more than a couple of days . . . But regardless of the reasons, she could ignore it no longer, not after his boorish behavior both during and after the game. She had to confront him openly, drive past the barriers, and find some answers.  
  
Cassiopeia stopped in the center of her tiny compartment, took a deep breath to brace herself, expecting to confront his wall of resistance, and, ready for battle, if necessary, turned to face her companion. Instead, she saw the anguished look on his face as he leaned against the door, the depth of the pain evident in his troubled blue eyes. His defenses were down. Perhaps there would be no battle . . . she changed her tactics as she approached him. Maybe instead of challenging him to accept help and demanding that he respond, she needed to keep those walls down, and let him see that there was no shame in accepting a helping hand.  
  
"Starbuck," she said softly, placing her hand on his chest to gently get his attention. "I think it's time we talked."  
  
He seemed not to notice her at first, so inwardly focused was he. "God, what an astrum I've been!" he said, still staring at the ceiling, yet unseeing. "Why? What was I doing? Apollo -" He broke off and looked directly into Cassie's eyes, with a gaze that penetrated like a laser with its intensity. "I just don't get it!" He bit off each word with a sudden bitterness.  
  
Cassie let her hand drop. "What?" she asked quietly, yet probing, "What don't you get?"  
  
"Any of this!" His voice was angry, almost shouting. He walked past her, pacing briefly, then threw his hands out. "Apollo, that reporter - what was I thinking?"   
  
"That's what we need to find out," Cassie said evenly. "We just need to know what. . ."  
  
For a moment, he seemed to genuinely search for an answer, to reach within, then the wall seemed to go up again as he suddenly pulled back. "Do you think I'm losing it, too? The commander says I need to see a counselor. Do you think so, too?"   
  
Cassie gently took his hand in hers, trying to calm him down. She carefully considered her words, knowing that he could either close back up and reject all help, or he could let her in. Her approach was critical. Finally, slowly, she said, "I just think that we've all been through so much in the past yahren, and we've all just blocked it out. Or locked it up in a remote corner of our minds, so that we can go on. Starbuck," She paused to catch his gaze again, to pull him back gently as she gripped the other hand, too, "I've had so many nights that I've just cried and cried . . . for all of those we had to leave behind, for the worlds we'll never see again, for -" She gulped back a sob, not having intended to release so much, but all at once feeling bombarded by her own memories, memories that resided deep within her heart. The jolt was unexpected, and she looked away, blinking to fight back the tears.  
  
Surprised, Starbuck brought his hand to her chin to gently guide her gaze back. She bit her lip and said nothing as she struggled to regain control. "What is it?" he whispered, concerned now.  
  
Cassiopeia closed her eyes for a moment, making a silent decision, hoping that what she was about to tell him would help him to open up. The experience was not one that she denied, but she also never talked about it. And she had never revealed this part of her life to Starbuck before. Perhaps now was as good of a time as any . . . She hoped it would help him. She hoped she would get through it without breaking down herself.  
  
Cassie chewed her lower lip again as she opened her eyes once more to stare into her companion's worried, troubled face. "Starbuck. . ." She paused, not quite sure how to begin, but wanting to find the way to show him that it was okay to open up, to let others in . . .  
  
"What? What is it?" He looked at her, confused and distressed by her intense reaction and hesitation.  
  
"Let's sit down," she said finally, guiding him to the only place they could really sit closely - her lower bunk. Once seated, she turned to face him, then looked away as she began, "I've never told you about my family -"  
Starbuck's own pain had receded a bit as he deliberately focused his mind on Cassie and what he knew about her past, and as he wondered what she had to say. "I know you flew with your father," Starbuck interrupted softly, "on an Aerian merchant freighter, and then after he died, you. . ." He hesitated before continuing, "became a socialator."  
  
Cassie studied his face for a moment, saw the true concern and puzzlement reflected in his eyes, and felt the need to continue. "Yes, that's part of it . . . but I've never told you about my mother and my sisters. . ."  
  
Starbuck's expression took on shades of bewilderment. "Sisters? Mother? I thought you'd said she died when you were a baby?"  
  
"That was the easy, uncomplicated explanation." Cassie took a deep breath and exhaled as she proceeded. "My father wasn't widowed. They just separated, when I was six. We lived on Aeries, but he flew his merchant route and was gone for sectars at a time. He and my mother - it was a disastrous pairing, really. She was Gemonese, and they'd been sealed when they were young, too young. She never felt comfortable in the different culture and grew more and more bitter and resentful at being left alone. So my father stayed away longer and longer . . . And he had a violent temper, so when he was home, they fought -- viciously sometimes . . ."  
  
"Cass, that must have been awful." Starbuck held her hands in his, not sure of what to say.  
  
"It was, it was," she said, a bit wistfully. "But he was always so kind and loving to me, especially after my two sisters began to see him only through my mother's eyes . . . I just wanted to please them both . . . but after a bitter, violent argument - one of many they'd had over the yahrens - he finally swore he'd never return. I couldn't stand the thought of not seeing him again, and I begged him not to go . . . or to take me with him." Cassie took another deep breath to keep calm. "And he did - take me with him. Out of spite for my mother, and to hurt her. My sisters . . . they were older than me . . . used to fight with me about our father. They wanted to protect Mother, and never understood my loyalty to him . . . And he knew that, so he took me with him." The tenseness in her face, the pain in her eyes, reflected her resurfacing sorrow.  
  
"He used you to hurt your mother?" The implications of her words slowly sank in as he tried to picture her as the young girl, the child, torn between her parents, then torn away, torn apart . . . "What happened?" He finally asked. "My God - you were only a child!"  
  
"I never saw my nother or sisters again, except -- " Cassie said, barely above a whisper, the tears shimmering in her eyes, despite her efforts. "We never went back. I flew with him from then on, from planet to planet, never staying in one place for more than a secton. And he tried to be my teacher, making me study, always keeping an updated library in the ship's computer. I learned a great deal . . ." She paused, and a dark shadow seemed to cloud her eyes. "But a merchant's life can be very rough. We visited some very poor places. And I had some different life lessons, too . . ." She looked away, edging back from his touch.   
  
Starbuck felt a chill run through his body as he wondered what she meant, but he could not bring himself to ask. Instead, he cautiously put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close again, wishing he could shield her from the unspoken experiences. They sat for a moment in silence.  
  
Absorbing the warmth as she rested her head against his shoulder, she slipped her arm behind his back to pull even closer, feeling his concern and love, drawing it around her like a blanket before she could continue. When she spoke, her gaze was distant. "And then he died eleven yahrens later . . . I went back to Aeries to look for my mother and sisters, but-" A tear finally trickled down her cheek, and she wiped it away quickly, and looked down, staring at the floor but seeing distant memories.   
  
Soon she continued, "I couldn't find them - anywhere. So I went to Gemon to look there. I never did find my sisters, but I found my mother, finally . . . and she refused to speak to me. Refused to even acknowledge me . . .I don't know why - " Cassie stopped, gulping back the sob. "I've never understood, except to figure that her hatred and bitterness were so great, and burned for so long, that they just consumed any love she'd had . . ."   
  
"My God, Cass. . ." Starbuck had his own memories of rejection, but those had been foster parents, people he had not really known and had tried hard *not* to know. Not his blood relatives. He had no recollection of his real parents and no memories of that fateful night in the Caprican Thorn Forest, over thirty yahrens ago, when the Cylon massacre had left him an orphan. He had to have been no more than three, because he would have remembered, remembered something, had he been any older . . . surely. . . Starbuck felt an unidentifiable coldness as his own reflections melded with the horror he felt as he tried to comprehend someone rejecting her own child. "My God. . ."  
  
Cassie, however, felt the intensity fading as she simply experienced the sensations, letting them flow through her and recede into the past, the pain being replaced by the closeness, the warmth of the present moment. She could sense Starbuck's genuine concern and compassion, as well as his feeling of impotence at not being able to do anything more for her. This was a battle that had been fought many yahrens ago . . .  
  
Feeling stronger, she eventually continued. "I was alone, then. So I found refuge with a Gemonese woman my father had known. And she taught me a great deal. Despite what most people think, you know that a socialator is an honorable profession: a healer, really, a practitioner of ancient arts that have existed throughout the millennia, and it involves much more than what most outsiders think. I am very grateful to my teacher and would not change that part of my life."  
  
Starbuck caught the faint defensive edge to her words, and turned so he could face her. "Cass, I know that. Have I ever said anything disparaging about your life as a socialator?" Images of his initial actions flashed through his mind, so he amended his question, "I mean, outside of my normal, crudely bad jokes?"  
Cassie had to laugh. He was abashed because knew that he had acted like so many other males did when encountering a socialator. But she also knew that he had never meant it in a negative way. Yes, he had been attracted and intrigued by her title, but his had been a romancer's fascination, as opposed to the scorn and belittlement that others had given her. She also remembered his first gentle words to her, aboard the shuttle as she and the other wounded were brought to the Galactica for treatment. He had asked her name, then mentioned kindly that it meant "faery queen," and his quiet comments and tender approach had helped to calm her fears. Some would say that it had been purely and totally a selfish come-on, even before he knew for certain her profession, and a subtle way to gain the conquest. But she had looked into his eyes and seen the true concern beneath the charmer's facade. And even after he was enticed by her role as a socialator, he had never pushed or treated her with intentional disrespect.  
  
She studied his expression now, for a moment, seeing a mixture of concern, confusion at her reaction, and embarrassment. But he also seemed more at ease, the anguish gone. Even she had forgotten her primary intent as she had gotten caught up in her past emotions, but perhaps now, he would be more receptive. She needed to try.  
  
Cassie was about to comment on his original motives when they had first met, to offer a teasing jab to keep the mood light, when he closed his eyes and straightened his back. His face furrowed as first one spasm, then another, ran through his muscles. "Frak," he muttered. "Lords, I'm tired of this!"  
"Here," she said quietly, a slight smile on her lips, "Let me help you." He did not protest as she slipped his flight jacket off, then carefully pulled his tunic over his head. Tossing the garments on the floor, she said, "Lie down," and eased him face down on the mattress.   
  
For a while, she silently and skillfully massaged the aching muscles, feeling the knots loosen and relax. Starbuck's groans eventually turned into comfortable murmurings. Finally, she decided it was time to shift back to her original goal, to lead him towards a recognition that he needed to end the denial. "Starbuck," She gauged her next words carefully, "my experiences with my parents - as painful as they were -- are a part of me, and I accept that now. Even if I don't talk about it or share it. You're the first one I've told in a long, long while."  
  
"Thanks for that, Cass," he said, his voice reflecting a heartfelt sincerity.  
She could not see his expression, but she could feel that he was much calmer. Maybe he would accept a few more probing questions now. "If I had tried to ignore this, it would have torn me a apart, Starbuck. We just can't deny our experiences." She paused. "That's why I'm so worried about you right now," she said cautiously. "Something is troubling you. You need to find out what it is."  
  
She felt him tense again and heard the frustration return to his voice. "I just don't know. I don't understand it!"  
  
"You've buried whatever it is," she said gently. "And, as painful or as frightening as it may be, you need to bring those feelings back out . . ." As she spoke, she skillfully rubbed the pressure points along his spine, key areas for releasing tension, trying to ease his resistance, if possible. Almost without thought, her knowledge and training as a socialator guided her.  
  
Although Starbuck said nothing, she could sense the confusion, the indecision, in his silence, so she continued, "You've been . . . moodier. . . since Connly's trial. What was it about him that bothered you?"  
  
"I - He -" He was struggling for words. His answer when he finally went on, though, still reflected his unwillingness to talk about it. "I'm not sure. I don't know."  
  
Cassie sighed inwardly. She sensed that she was not going to make much more progress, at least not this night. The walls were just too strong. She would try one more suggestion, though. "Starbuck, you mentioned that the commander wants you to talk to a counselor. I think that's a good idea --"   
  
She felt the his muscles go rigid, almost. He rolled onto his side to look up at her as he said, "I'm not about to talk to some stranger -" He did not mention that the commander had already ordered him to take the psychological exam.  
  
"What about Tarnia?" she asked, interrupting. "She's a qualified counselor. She had lots of training on Sagittarius but just never used it after the Destruction, since she was more concerned about Copernicus. You could talk to her."   
  
"I don't think -"  
  
His stubbornness was finally fraying her patience. An edge of frustration slipped in as she said, "Look, you know the regulations as well as I do," she said, having deduced what the commander must have said to him. "If Adama recommends that you talk to someone, you will *not* be cleared for duty until you do. And you're supposed to have your final examination tomorrow. Let's talk to her then."  
  
"Maybe," he grumbled.  
  
She decided to leave it at that. At least, he had not flat out refused. She pushed him gently back down and continued her skillful massaging. After a few moments, she felt him relaxing again, felt the tension fading. A few more centons passed, and he seemed to be actually drifting off to sleep. A quick glance at the chronometer on her bedside stand showed it to be 0130. The fatigue seemed to settle all at once as she remembered that she had a full twelve-centar shift tomorrow, and her roommate would be returning at 0800. One thought dominated her as she pulled off her boots and nudged Starbuck over, snuggling next to him on the narrow, one-person mattress: one thought - sleep!  
  
*******  
Drowning. Drowning, being pulled beneath the surface as the swells rush over the head and the current drags down, down, down. The crushing pressure against the chest. Suffocating. . . . but it is not water. Pulled. Being pulled, pulled in all directions. Hands. Hands grabbing, pushing, tearing. And arms. Elbows. Legs, feet, bodies. Bodies jolting and jarring. Pushing, flailing against the maddening throng, helplessly, futilely, for protection, to escape. The panic swells from within and explodes into terror as the chaotic mass of angry, hysterical people overwhelms. The frenzied, raging mob aboard the Sagittarius. The noise is deafening. Senses scramble under a fierce barrage of pounding, kicking, trampling, suffocating, crushing sea of bodies. A swirling human kaleidoscope as the mind twirls dizzily. Then a sharp, blinding, piercing pain rises with the deafening roar and crescendos into an explosion of nothingness.  
  
Darkness. And cold, a cold that penetrates to the bone, numbing. Trying to move, and a sudden, fierce fire burning through the center of the back and radiating out through every nerve. A soundless cry of agony. Gasping, gasping. . . the pain fades and eyes open. All is a blurry, greyish black, shadowy. . . then tiny, flickering yellow flames break the darkness, eerie pinpoints. The shadowy blackness floats, swirls. . . Fear swells with the struggle to make sense of it, to comprehend, to regain control.  
  
A shape hovers above, a bearded face beneath a shroud, eyes reflecting the yellowish orange flames. Desperately looking away . . . No, don't, don't look. Don't look! But the gaze is locked, frozen, on the shadowy image above. The face smiles, coldly, cruelly, as a laser drifts into view, slowly aimed to kill . . . Sherok, the madman, with icy, vacant eyes that sear to the very core. Paralyzed, arms and legs cannot move; eyes can only watch, watch in a fascinated, terrified horror as the finger slowly presses the trigger. "You will die." The voice is cold, flat, mechanical. Human, but not. Gasping, short, panic-filled breaths as the heart races. Sweat burns eyes as it slowly trickles down. The mind is screaming, "No, no, no, no!" But the words soundlessly choke in the throat.  
  
And light explodes as eyes squeeze tightly shut. Breathing stops. A deafening silence. A void. . .  
  
Then a voice. Different. Desperate, yet unnervingly calm. "And if it weren't for you, my plan would've worked. If it weren't for you. It would have worked." Exhaling sharply as lungs burn from the held breath, and eyes open to see a different face. And the barrel of a laser leveled at the head. Captain Connly, eyes cold, distant, detached, inhuman, almost. "We only had two more days to go. No one suspected anything. We would've just disappeared before the Galactica knew anything and headed back to freedom. But then you. . ." The rising fury, burning through the icy exterior. Connly smiles as he slowly, slowly turns the laser against his own head. "No! Wait! That's not the answer!" Desperately, desperately trying to grab the captain's arm, to grab the laser, to stop him. Stop him! No! Hands grasp the laser as his finger squeezes the trigger.   
  
The high-pitched, numbing sound of a laser at close range bursts into a blinding flash. Then darkness.  
  
Another voice. Different, too. Tense and agitated. "Starbuck, it's me!"   
  
Startled recognition sparks a shudder. The feel of cold metal in a hot, sweaty, shaking palm. Eyes open to see a familiar face framed through the sites of the laser pistol as it aims at the captain's heart. At Apollo. The lifeline, the anchor. Apollo, no . . .! For an instant, the comforting, solacing face blurs into the taunting, snarling image of Ortega.  
  
Escape! Escape. . . just fire the viper's turbos and be free . . . But hands will not. There is nowhere to go, nowhere. The realization burns with cold terror. The feeling of desperation is overpowering. An inescapable suffocation from being trapped, trapped with no way out. "Stay back, or I'll fire!" a voice screams. The words echo painfully through the mind as eyes gaze in horror at the calm, yet beseeching look on Apollo's face. So steady and reassuring. . . But there is no way out. No escape, no hope. For anyone. A bone-chilling calmness, devoid of all emotion, overwhelms the terror and grips the soul as the mind yields to the all-encompassing despair. Vision freezes on the image of his closest friend, the astonished look of disbelief, as the finger pulls the trigger. No! Oh, God, no! How could you possibly? No, no, no!  
And light explodes.   
  
Cold. The ground is cold. And wet. Dewy wet. The smell of damp earth. Then the overpowering stench of smoke and burning flesh sears the nostrils. Child's eyes open to see a scorched laser pistol, dimly visible in the pre-dawn light, the metal twisted and smoldering, lying in the cold, dewy grass. Cries, piercing, wailing cries. So many of them. Small hands press tightly against ears to shut out the terrifying screams. Explosions vibrate through the ground and through the soul. A shower of flashing laser fire rips through the dark, and a myriad of oval attacking ships swirl through the starry, deep violet sky, seeming to brush the dark red light of dawn behind them. Dawn dripping blood in the Thorn Forest of Caprica.  
  
Paralyzed by the fear, the all-consuming panic envelopes his small frame. Huddling, curled tensely and rigidly, eyes squeezed shut, trying vainly to escape . . . The intense, agonized, wordless cry for parents . . .  
  
And suddenly warmth. Warm hands lifting, embracing, his face pressed against a chest. The steady, rhythmic beating of a heart drowning out the screams and cries. So warm, a radiance against cheeks. Held tightly, tightly and securely. Rocking and swaying as the body moves. So safe, so safe at last. Tears flow in hot streams down the cheeks in a feeling of intense relief. A familiar scent swells and fills nostrils, washing away the pungent, smoky smell; the sweet, maternal fragrance permeates and envelopes the senses.   
  
Then a jolt. And jarring.   
  
Feet begin to run. The heart beats faster. Breaths come in gasps. Pounding, pounding, jerking, shaking. The vibration through the chest of a rising, moaning cry pierces through his head. It crescendos into a shrill scream. The fragile, comforting cocoon of security disintegrates as a low, icy, mechanical sound swells louder and louder. The fangs of fear bite through his heart.   
"You will die." The voice is cold, flat, inhuman.  
  
And light explodes.   
  
A dizzying rush, falling. Impact! A sharp, shocking, stabbing pain radiates from the back out through arms and legs, as the heavy, heavy weight of a body falls on top of his tiny frame, suffocating. . . And darkness. Then a voice, low, cold, and mechanical. Still stunned, he grabs desperately but is too weak to grasp as his mother's weight is lifted off and a blinding beam strikes his eyes. And behind the white beam, the oscillating, scanning, red lights, mesmerizing, traumatizing. . . The cold, emotionless voice: "This human is too weak to survive. Do not waste the energy on killing it."  
  
Blinding darkness as the lights vanish and the enemy turns away. The dull thud as her body drops close. It is warm, still warm, so warm . . . and the terrified young boy huddles close, desperately clinging to the fading warmth, wailing shrilly, hollowly, as an indefinable, barren feeling envelopes him, and slowly, slowly, the chill penetrates to the bone . . . and through the soul.  
  
*************  
Lieutenant Starbuck awoke gasping, disoriented, the dream a dreadful, frigid feeling just beyond his grasp. . .   
  
  



	5. Chapter Five

  
  
----------- chapter 5 ----------------  
  
In Apollo's quarters, Sheba sat on the coach, waiting as the  
Blue Squadron's captain said goodnight to Boxey in the next  
room. She could hear, indistinctly, the captain's voice  
softly lulling the little boy to sleep, echoed by the  
child's own lazy and scattered murmurs.  
  
Every possible end of cycle that Boxey could spend with  
Apollo, he would prolong the sleepy chats with his father  
endlessly, struggling to not deliver himself to the  
dangerous absentmindedness of the dreamworld.  
He would greedily hold his father with him as long as he  
could, until the last vestiges of consciousness finally  
rocked him away, but still confident that Apollo was close  
by, alert and watching. Assured that he was safe. That  
Apollo was safe. That everything was all right.  
  
He needed that illusion.  
  
Sipping slightly from her cup of ambrosa, Sheba suddenly  
felt a little embarrassed to be present there, witnessing  
the intimacy of their moment. At the same time, though, she  
also felt frustrated at her embarrassment. She did not want  
to feel like that, like an intruder. She could never deny  
to herself how much she wanted to be a part of Apollo and  
Boxey's lives or how much she feared that she would never  
never be.  
  
Letting her eyes wander around the room, she familiarized  
herself with the captain's shy attempts to personalize his  
standard-issued quarters. The place was different from her  
father's quarters on the Pegasus, which had been overly  
embellished with his martial decorations, honors and  
replicas of Classic Period warfare objects.  
  
Apollo's personal space, however, revealed the suppressed  
and idealistic identity of a man of peace. Judging by his  
meticulous attentions to the unexciting military furniture  
and the accurate disposition of the few art objects placed  
around the room, all from the Caprican Restoration Period's  
style, she could tell that his natural preciosity of  
character extended itself to aesthetics as well.  
  
'For Platon's sake!' Sheba sighed helplessly.  
His ideal of purity had certainly became na eccentricity,  
and she could bet all of her cubits that he was a follower  
of Unfeasible Love. She'd never stand a chance.  
  
Her gaze locked onto the bookcase that sat within arm's  
reach, perpendicular to the sofa. The books disposal, in  
contrast, hurriedly stuck into the shelf, with some of them  
purposely misplaced for easier identification and consult,  
indicated that he was a chaotic, avid reader.  
  
Philosophy, anthropology, history, mythology and theology  
seemed to be his latest obsessed interests, along with some  
poetry, she deduced, after leaning over to examine more  
closely the books' titles on the shelf. Her heart tightened,  
wondering why he had invited her to his quarters, when he  
seemed so involved with his particular world.  
  
She reached out for a book, randomly, trying to occupy her  
thoughts and to avoid higher expectations as to the  
surprising invitation, after that troubled night, when  
Starbuck had abruptly departed and the little group of  
friends had awkwardly broken apart.  
Sheba's heart had broken then, too, when she saw Apollo's  
face saddening again as he stood still in the corridor,  
laconically gazing at Starbuck, while his best friend turned  
his back on him and walked away from all of them. She had  
approached the captain, then, and placed her hand on his  
arm, reassuringly. Apollo had turned around, awkwardly, and  
simply invited her to come with him. She could not have  
refused. She wanted to, feeling acutely uncomfortable.  
But she just could not.  
  
Difficult times would do strange things to people's hearts  
and minds. Despite the hygienist cosmogony of the  
humankind's predators outwards, the Cylon Empire, war games  
would be played inwards as well. That was how war was like.  
A radioactive usine, where high-pressured particles collided  
in dangerous chain effect. Everybody was fissile then.  
Individuals, races, and species would madly repulse,  
attract, bond together or clash against each other in that  
damn cosmic furnace that Hades had made.  
  
It had been tense like this, since the two proud warriors  
had first met, eye to eye, aboard the now doomed Pegasus,  
under command of her father, the only power aboard that  
battlestar. The initial rivalry between both ship's crews,  
like a tension cable stretching the polarization, fueled an  
undercurrent attraction between the two proud warriors. But  
Sheba seemed to be the first one of the two to acknowledge  
the true nature of those contradictory feelings. Perhaps,  
she was not the first one, she thought to herself bitterly.  
Perhaps, she was the only one...  
  
Time spent aboard the Galactica, a different and new home  
for her, ruled by entirely opposite power politics, had been  
a challenging adaptation to her combative nature.  
The loss of her father, the most impressive masculine figure  
ever impacting her moldable soul, changed her destiny  
dramatically, and Sheba, like anyone else, feared what  
destiny still had on hold for her.  
  
She absently turned the pages of the book in her hands,  
thinking of Cassiopeia's last friendly words when she opened  
up her heart to the experienced Gemonese ex-socialator.  
Cassie was adept at human feelings and romantic affairs; she  
had wise eyes for men and she would surely know what Sheba's  
naivete of a first love could never tell her.  
  
"He loves you, Sheba," Cassie had stated firmly, almost  
making Sheba's hesitations vanish. But the young woman could  
not overcome what appearances said to her.  
Despite her own intuition that Apollo's feelings matched her  
own, the captain's illogical denial was enough to make her  
convictions feel like mere self-delusions most of the time.  
She turned another page of the book, sighing sadly, feeling  
her heart sinking and almost regretting that she had  
accepted the invitation of that night.  
She was fooling herself. Cassie was wrong.  
  
When a flat picture marking a page slid into her hands,  
unexpectedly, a last argument for her pessimistic reasoning  
slapped Sheba right on the face. Apollo and his former wife  
were embracing in it, tenderly, in front of what seemed to  
be the rocky basis of the sphinx and the pyramidal ruins  
which Sheba knew to be Kobol's. The blessed dead planet of  
their ancestors, the cursed bloody sands where Serina's life  
had been blasted away by a cylon's lasergun.  
  
That was it. In her hands, the faced image of the ghost  
perpetually haunting Apollo, holding him away in that remote  
dimension of memories suspended in time.  
"Lords!" Sheba said under her breath, fully realizing, now,  
how ravishingly beautiful Serina really was!  
The female warrior regretted never having been initiated  
into the feminine secrets of seduction and the bewitching  
arts. She was aware that she was an ordinary beauty, and now  
she doubted, painfully, that she would ever be enough for  
Apollo, when confronted with Serina's image of incomparable  
exoticism.  
  
She felt her eyes sting when that sudden thought struck.  
Just like with anybody else on that fugitive fleet, Sheba's  
own inner battle for survival was still to be won, too.  
That was, after all, the stuff of what every war was made.  
Love or hatred, strength or weakness. Whether you win or  
loose. Nothing in between, except for the void.  
  
That emptiness replete of density: resistance.  
  
Apollo emerged quietly from Boxey's room, silently leaning  
against the doorway, observing Sheba at a safe distance.  
In his eyes, a shimmering of reverie... How beautiful Sheba  
was!  
  
She kept her head lowered, examining a book, Apollo noticed,  
unaware of his presence at the doorway.  
Once again, he felt that recurrent need to decipher that  
woman to himself. Her light brown hair fluidly draped over  
her shoulders, hiding her face and half covering the tip of  
her snub nose. Definitively arrogant, the captain smiled at  
himself. While many female warriors were either overly  
masculine or excessively feminine to his taste, Sheba's  
character and manners were of a refined balance, unfamiliar  
to him. Bittersweet.  
  
He knew that her ability to allow herself to show off  
weakness was actually another demonstration of her unique  
bravery. Sheba was that kind of warrior who stood up to face  
not only enemies outside, but their own inner armada of  
emotions as well. Apollo knew so many warriors who would  
spend their lives focusing on each and every possible  
distraction that, for Kobol's Mercy, would keep them from  
the horror of looking inside to the shadowy mess of  
conflicts that they carried within.  
  
He could see them all delivering themselves to the benumbing  
of the senses, greedily playing cards and welcoming the  
semiconsciousness wrought by the ambrosa and the flesh  
aboard the Rising Star.  
He could see them, whether noisily ranting about their last  
sexual adventures and battle deeds in the OC or aboard their  
vipers, enraptured by adrenaline.  
He knew it, because, even though he was almost unresponsive  
in the opposite end of their spectrum, encapsulated into his  
own shell, he was also one of them, too. In all instances,  
blessedly narcosed. Constantly alert to remember something:  
forget, just forget.  
  
Apollo hit the panel code and the door behind him slid shut,  
making his friend jolt with surprise. He was just about to  
tease her for having caught the proud warrior off guard,  
expecting to see that defiant stare Sheba usually cast at  
anyone daring to contradict her.  
When she looked at him, though, she had a strained face.  
Apollo immediately glimpsed Serina 's picture in her hands  
and approached. Gently and almost indifferently, he took the  
flat picture out of her hands and slid it back into the  
book, closing it.  
  
"A Book Without a Title by an Author Without a Name," he  
read its name out loud, holding the book with both hands,  
thoughtfully.  
  
Sheba sipped her glass of ambrosa again, trying to fake  
easiness. "Quite an unusual title," she brought herself to  
say.  
  
"Well, the author is unusual, too," the captain answered  
casually, pouring himself a glass of the spirit, and sliding  
next to her on the coach, staring at the book's cover.  
"He is supposed to be nameless, but he was a Scorpion viper  
pilot who lived in the Second Century of the Millennium War.  
After being thought as MIA in a battle, for over three  
centars, he reappeared mysteriously, reporting that a  
strange event had happened to him while he was gone..."  
Apollo hesitated. "Well, he just came back... changed. He  
denied his former life, name, and titles and deserted the  
Colonial Service."  
  
The captain's apparent indifference to Sheba's still  
lingering embarrassment was helping her to feel at ease  
again. She sipped her ambrosa slowly too, now curious about  
the book and the author Apollo seemed so interested in. "He  
was a Colonial Warrior, Apollo. He can't be nameless."  
  
"Yeah, his name was actually Maldek, Sheba. But he  
proclaimed himself a nameless man," he answered, stealing a  
glance at her, appreciating the smell of her light perfume,  
which was much more subtle than the one Serina used to wear  
to mark her presence, he noticed. He wanted nothing but to  
protect Sheba's feelings. "But I always think of him by his  
name, Maldek, anyway," he continued shrugging, "though his  
being nameless was part of his belief system. All based off  
of the weird experience he said he'd had..." Apollo added,  
shaking  
his head reflectively.  
  
Sheba was following attentively now. "Which was...?"  
  
Apollo shuddered slightly, biting his lips and staring at an  
invisible spot behind her; his typical indicative gesture  
signaling that his mental scanner had locked on a target.  
"He reported that during the time he had been presumed  
missing in action, he had actually been abducted by a  
mysterious race of beings... " The captain answered,  
carefully measuring his words. "Or... as he himself puts  
it, raised  
to The Merkabah."  
  
Before Sheba even had the time to ask, he replied, "Another  
concept for what some of our colonies` cultures have been  
calling The Celestial Home of The Gods, The Lords` Kingdom,  
The Mansion of the Yahrens... you know..." he shrugged  
again. "The way I figured it out, The Merkabah could be any  
far remote, unknown vehicle, vessel or realm through which  
an advanced  
form of life expresses itself for us."  
  
"Oh..." Sheba's brown eyes widened and stared, considering  
his words, as she slowly drank a good dose from her glass.  
"A type of morphogenetic field, the way we`d perceive them,"  
she added, noticing Apollo`s dumb surprise at her witty  
comment."This warrior-prophet did desert the military,  
then?"  
  
"Yeah... the Colonial War Council decided to absolve his  
desertion because he was diagnosed a harmless lunatic,  
psychically damaged by the stress of the combats..." he  
trailed off, deviating his look and absently staring at  
nothing again. "You know, not all of us make it..."  
  
Sheba and Apollo remained silently connected in thought, for  
a few microns, feeling that familiar pain that war and loss  
evoke. The pain was the same. Pain is a cohesive force,  
sometimes. Pain for themselves, for the Colonies and for the  
thousands of human lives lost in that insane struggle for  
survival. They felt fear, too, fear that they themselves  
would, one day, not be able to hold back the pain anymore.  
Unspeakable fear that any one of them might succumb, give  
up, and mentally reach the breaking point, like Connly  
did...  
  
Sheba broke the silence, "What happened to this man,  
Apollo?"  
  
"He proclaimed himself a prophet, as he believed that he had  
had a... transcedental experience and was gifted with the  
blessing of prophecy. According to his words, he had met  
Deus..."  
  
Sheba raised an eyebrow, questioningly, and Apollo smiled.  
"From an ancient Scorpian dialect, 'Deus' could be equated  
to the word 'God', Sheba," he explained. "But, 'Deus' is not  
the same as the prevailing God' s concept amongst our main  
cultures, or what we most commonly understand by that  
word... not exactly..."  
  
"Not exactly?" Sheba repeated, trying to follow down the  
captain`s reasoning.  
  
"Well... 'Deus', in that ancient Scorpian dialect, would  
mean something similar to 'Made of Many Is', roughly  
translated to standard Kobolian. It implies the idea of One  
Transcedental Consciousness made of many. Every and each one  
of them in diverse levels of awareness... He also refers to  
the same concept as The One Who Sees Through Many Eyes or  
The One Who Speaks Through Many Mouths, too," Apollo looked  
at her and she nodded assertively.  
  
It was rare that the warriors aboard the Galactica could  
find time for such philosophical speculations, or even  
divagations, when so many other survival premises were made  
priority in their fugitive subsistence. Albeit different  
from  
Apollo's discourse, Sheba had already had many tranquil  
moments like that in the past, with her father, Cain, on  
the Pegasus.  
  
On her home battlestar, under her father's military  
autocracy, with no civil population depending on them, life  
had turned to a giant and unique disciplinary game of war  
with its own rules. Cain was the Great Doctrinator then, and  
the haughty commander simply loved to paint himself as a  
role model, educating people around him about his very own  
life and war's philosophies. His indoctrinations were  
legendary too, known as the so-called "Cain's barracks  
discourses".  
  
She missed those moments badly, and she drank in Apollo's  
words, moved by that same thirst that she tasted so bitterly  
every time she woke up, gasping, in her quarters, still  
alarmed that she wasn't aboard her home on the Pegasus  
anymore. That she was on the strange Galactica now.  
Without Cain.  
  
She laughed at herself, wondering what Cain would have to  
say, if he ever heard that his daughter was now in Adama's  
son quarters, drinking ambrosa after curfew, talking about a  
warrior from the second century of the Millenium War, who,  
beyond a deserter, proclaimed that he had met God!  
  
Or rather, Deus...  
  
She drank a little bit more from her chalice, relaxing, her  
thoughts coming more freely. "Hmmm... The One Who Sees  
Through Many Eyes... The Imperious Leader thinks through  
three brains too... and the cylons serve him as a single  
mind entity... What if-"  
  
"No!" Apollo promptly admonished, if gently. "I wasn`t  
meaning any literal reference to morphology or genetic  
engineering of soulless clones, Sheba! Maldek was referring  
to the many levels of *spiritual* consciousness, he was  
referring to soul groups, not to the cylons` cybernetic  
group mind!"  
  
His passionate correction made Sheba suspicious. Apollo was  
really involved by that self-proclaimed pariah prophet and  
his book.  
  
"Though, I`d admit that, in a way, the Cylons Civilization  
is a rough, material attempt of the brain centered intellect  
to try and emulate this same concept, as the theologists and  
philosophers have postulated," the captain conceded.  
"The cylons are a perverted and artificial simulacrum of  
this spiritual template of unicity I`m talking about... 'The  
Forged Metal`s Beast', as Maldek named them. They did it all  
wrong, basing their sick engineered evolution on the  
cybernetic unification of the brain`s faculties, ignoring  
the soul`s, denying individuality`s free-choice and imposing  
change artificially, from the outside in... "  
  
Sheba nodded in agreement. Wondering about Deus`concept,  
though, she guessed if Apollo would possible be correlating  
Maldek's visions to another, more personal and still cloudy  
past event that had happened to the three of them: to her,  
Apollo, and Starbuck...A knot in her stomach, however, made  
her feel hesitant and unwilling to hear or talk about that.  
  
She studied Maldek's picture illustrating the book's first  
page. A very handsome young warrior, she thought. The  
Scorpian's bluish dark hair was long, framing the most  
penetrating dark eyes and aquiline traits she had ever seen.  
Maldek had certainly been a magnetic figure in his times.  
"Did this man preach then, after he came back to civilian  
life?" She asked casually.  
  
"Yes, sure!" Apollo answered. "He had gathered a bunch of  
followers, summoned by his visions. They peregrinated around  
the twelve worlds seeding his revelations, and they wandered  
on the Caprican deserts, too. This book is a compilation of  
Silent Scribbles, namelessly, who preserved his words."  
  
"And when did he die?"  
  
"There's no verifiable register found, Sheba. His followers  
separated and continued preaching around the Colonies,  
though they were not given much importance. The book says  
that he didn't die, but that he was raised to 'The Celestial  
Home of the Gods', or rather, to The Merkabah, for  
eternity... At least, that's what they say," he shrugged.  
"There's no way to check it out. Not for the grace of any  
religious sientificism," Apollo snickered, amused at his own  
irreverence. It must be the ambrosa, he thought.  
  
"But when he said that he met Deus, it means that he  
believed he met a bunch of gods or what we`d understand as  
one god?" she asked frowning, taking the mysterious and  
intriguing book in her hands again. Through the vapor of the  
ambrosa, every little detail on its cover gained another  
perception, sharper than before.  
  
"Both. One and many at the same time, Sheba," the captain  
smiled roguishly. "Unicity in diversity. For The Prophet  
Without a Name and his sect, God or gods are all human  
labels translating a transcendent concept."  
  
Sheba gestured in agreement, and the captain continued,  
visibly enjoying his lecture. "He used to say that such  
translations depended on where you are, as an observer,  
looking at the whole of reality. Figuratively, as if you  
were sitting on a few milimetrons section of a giant  
spiral," Apollo said, drawing a spiral in the air with his  
free hand, "and you saw a straight line only, from the  
perspective point where you are sitting, but, if you raise  
yourself a little more above it, you see a curb," he  
gestured excitedly. "If you raise yourself higher, you'll  
see the circle, and even higher, the whole spiral..."  
  
"Apollo!" Sheba admonished, surprised. "This is basic  
scientific knowledge! Theory of the Variables, everyone  
knows it! It's so obvious. What's new about that?" Sheba  
questioned impatiently, unable to keep herself from pointing  
out the obvious, even though the ambrosa made the obvious a  
discovery for Apollo.  
  
The captain bit his lips again, thwarted. "I was using it as  
a metaphor, Sheba! What Maldek was trying to say,  
figuratively, is that, what he understood as Deus and that  
which other cultures understand as gods or God, giving it  
different names, faces and attributes, is always the same  
concept, The Spiral, perceived differently by the variable  
of perspectives, states of awareness, along the space-time  
continuum. The same Physics principles. It's that simple!"  
He stated pointedly, almost childishly hurt.  
  
"Okay, it does make sense to me," Sheba conceded. "But, if I  
understood that metaphor, we`re all Deus too, not only the  
beings Maldek met..." she insisted.  
  
"For Maldek`s beliefs, yeah... we`re all Deus, but we`re not  
totally aware of it, yet. He probably called the beings he  
met as Deus, because the very own meaning of the word, Made  
of many Is, whenever pronounced, implied that inner  
knowledge, that humankind is also part of that  
Consciousness. He called them Deus, probably, because he  
recognized those being`s as bearers of this knowledge and,  
obviously, because of their greater width of awareness  
within The Spiral!"  
  
Sheba smiled amusedly at Apollo's idiosyncrasy and examined  
the figure on the book's cover. A complex winged sphinx with  
a Leo`s body and a female's face laying on a desert's sands.  
It was gazing at a bright yellowish sun, whose human`s face  
was blowing burning winds and whirling clouds of fire.  
  
The sphinx was gazing, too, at an astronomical zone behind  
the pictured sun, where a constellation`s zoomorphic outline  
delineated the figure of a leo. Beside the sphinx, there  
stood three pyramids and a river near by, closely mirroring,  
graphically, another constellation's anthropomorphic  
representation, whose name, in translated standard Kobolian,  
read "The Hunter".  
  
The biggest pyramid seemed to be the most important one, as  
it deserved more careful details. It was a tridimensional  
pyramid whose basis`s four apexes were encircled by a golden  
sphere, resembling a snake swallowing its own tail. It  
seemed to be dividing the whole cover`s concept in two  
opposite principles. On the right, the sun, the leo and the  
light. On the left, there was a pale reflexive moon and a  
draco shaped constellation in the background, carefully  
pictured as if blended with the darkness of the night.  
  
Sheba knew that, for many sects among the Colonies, the  
symbol of the snake swallowing its own tail meant the  
beginning and the ending point of all irreconcilable duality  
contained in the Universe. It was the Divine Paradox' s  
sacred emblem. She wondered, tenderly, absorbing the  
symbol`s significance, if it couldn`t mean their way back  
home, too.  
  
All constellations had each of their stars signed with  
strange glyphs. And each of their aligned dispositions,  
sketched from a planet`s surface point of view, were neither  
correlated with any of the twelve worlds' astronomic charts,  
nor with any other planetary star system that she knew of.  
Sheba thought, then, that they might have been obtained from  
some ancient stellar registers from their Kobolian  
forefathers' bygone sun, as preserved so by the Elders,  
before its death caused the First Exodus to the Twelve  
Colonies Solar System. But when Sheba's attention focused  
again on the bigger pyramid sketch, she realized that her  
assumption was wrong.  
  
Its vertical lines and its angles at the base, jutted out  
another drawing pattern carefully inserted in the pyramidal  
outline, configuring out of it another clear symbol. The  
symbol of the ancient Kobolian cross, very broadly known as  
derived from the Colonial apocryphal registers. The cross  
that rotates around its own pole: The Gammadion Cross,  
mythically associated with the spiral form of the galaxy in  
which nestled the Thirteenth Tribe's home, Earth.  
  
"Was this man, this Maldek, just like an apocryphal prophet,  
then?" She asked examining the cross.  
  
"In a way..." Apollo was paying close attention to her now,  
almost tenderly grateful for her conceding and listening to  
him. He had not realized, until then, how much, how badly,  
he needed someone to listen to him.  
  
The alcohol had Sheba's mind fuzzy now and she did not face  
him, though she was aware of the captain staring intently at  
her. "Do you believe this man, then, Apollo?" She asked  
still admiring the book's cover.  
  
The captain did not answer her question. "You know... I was  
thinking about the gods, Sheba," he continued, following his  
own line of thought, "as so described by the Elders who,  
reportedly, were visited by them. As Father says, if the  
so-called gods might be a far advanced species seen as  
deities throughout the eyes of a more primitive, infant  
species -- and Deus`s concept would enfold this premise --  
then, their vehicle, their realm of existence, Maldek`s  
Merkabah, could well be translated, by us, into so many  
other things. Things other than The Home of the Gods, The  
Mansion of the Yahrens, only. I mean, depending on any  
specific individual`s particular beliefs and culture  
contacting, translating, those beings and their  
civilization`s reality, whose spiritual, mental and  
technological powers are eons ahead of us, they and their  
Merkabah could have been perceived, all along our  
generations, under many other disguises..."  
  
Sheba nodded assertively again. Introspectively, she seemed  
to be probing her own mind, now. "I guess I understand what  
you mean, Apollo," she said. "Their vessel, The Merkabah, as  
you say, would be so different from our ordinary reality,  
that it could only be perceived by us, since we translated  
it into our familiar parameters. Spacecrafts, kingdoms,  
The Celestial Homes... one could even translate it as a  
planet or... as ships of light..." she frowned and  
shuddered  
thinking of strange reminiscences from recent past.  
"Perhaps,  
it might even resemble a temple for some of us... I  
wonder..."  
  
The captain bit his lips once more. "You see? It's quite  
possible, then, that Maldek, the prophets from The Book of  
The Word, The Elders and.... so many others... were or have  
been having contact with some sort of advanced form of life  
whose evolution`s point in The Spiral just sits above us, or  
rather, closer to a much broader view of the universe than  
ours is," he muttered absently.  
  
Sheba had to admit to herself that Apollo`s own theories  
about the Warrior-Prophet's beliefs sounded rather  
convincing. "Gods flying aboard spacecrafts..." she  
snickered, the heat of the ambrosa already affecting her  
behavior. "Real spacecrafts, too, would look like strange  
birds to the reality reference of primitive species, anyway.  
Of course, I don't take our ancient legends as literal. I  
don't even take The Book of The Word as being literal. It  
was an interpretation of events... My father didn't believe  
it was literal, either."  
  
"I wonder if there was space for any other god aboard the  
same ship with Cain!" Apollo joked, countering himself  
immediately at Sheba's slight raising of eyebrows.  
  
While he turned to refuel his glass of ambrosa again, he  
felt her hand fingering slightly on his back. "I guess I  
heard the same about a certain captain tonight," she said,  
sounding clipped but amused.  
  
"And I guess you yourself said the same, too, about that  
same captain," he teased back, toasting at her. "Although  
you sounded a little bit more devoted, then" he grinned,  
bewildered at how comfortable he was with bringing up Sheba'  
s feelings for him in the conversation.  
  
Contrary to the reaction he expected, though, Sheba did not  
snap at him, insulted. Instead, she nodded slightly,  
half-smiling in admission. Apollo felt a wave of warm  
feeling reach out through his heart and soften it. The  
captain would never cease to admire how true she was to her  
own feelings. Her dignity made him feel ashamed of himself.  
Their faces were close and they remained staring at each  
other silently, for a few microns. Sheba saw that he was  
very serious now, and she almost felt like drowning in that  
turbulent ocean of green gazing at her so overwhelmingly.  
  
Apollo, likewise, could not counter the impulse that he felt  
to brush, ever so gently, the soft hair back from her face.  
He reached out and touched it very slightly, not even  
minding, this time, the flashing visual distortion  
flickering before his eyes, when he glimpsed again the  
diffuse sketch of faces shifting on her traits. From a  
disturbing slanted pair of alien eyes to another, so adored  
that it could only be Serina's, then back to Sheba's own  
concrete beauty and quizzical face.  
  
She was staring back at him, her hazel eyes, brown like  
longing lost shades of the Caprican mountains, he thought,  
sighing nostalgically. Her soft body emanated exotic scents.  
Her tender, warm and rosy flesh was pulsating with life and  
heat. So sweetly lush and tempting, it was too close to  
him...  
  
"What else did the prophet in the book say?" Sheba asked  
brusquely, breaking te eye contact, blushing and pretending  
obliviousness to his intent gaze. Her heart was zooming like  
a viper diving to kill as she turned her face to the book  
again. Cain`s daughter was not willing to sink in  
self-delusions now, the same way she was melting under the  
heat of that frakking ambrosa.  
  
As if he had just touched steaming tylium, the captain  
quickly pulled back his hand. His own blood boiling, he  
struggled to cool off and recollect his thoughts, still  
astonished at his own reactions.  
  
Until this moment, he suddenly realized, it seemed like he  
had been living in cold suspended animation, abruptly  
revived, by force of neurochemical laws. Certainly, effects  
of the alcoholic nectar`s heat and Sheba`s exuding magnetism  
saturating his quarters that unusual night, he concluded.  
With Serina, during those chaotic times right after the  
Destruction, he had had rare moments when both could talk  
about these things. But they had been so preciously rare.  
They simply were not given time enough...  
  
"Apollo! Will I have to wait too long?" Sheba's voice cut  
in, while she waved the book before his fluttering eyes. She  
seemed as embarrassed as he was, but she looked briskly  
happy, even more beautifully colored by the reddish blush on  
her cheeks.  
  
"Sorry, Sheba..." he smiled apologetically and rubbed his  
forehead, trying to concentrate on the book again. "Well,  
he, The Prophet Without a Name... he speaks in riddles,  
allegorically, making the reader have to think to interpret  
his words... He avoids technological terms and direct  
references to names and events, mostly... Maldek sounds  
archaic in his time."  
  
"Well, if he believed he was a prophet, he should, too."  
  
"He spoke the Prophet's Language, yeah," Apollo began to  
focus again. "The same as with The Merkabah and  
Deus` definitions, The Prophet's Tongue, as he calls it, is  
the language that speaks of concepts which we have no words  
for, or so he preached."  
  
"Oh, the handsome young lunatic was a walking languatron,  
then, given that we don't have a translation device able to  
interpret alien concepts we know nothing about!" Sheba  
chuckled.  
  
Apollo laughed at her logic. "I guess you're right! You  
know, Maldek said that when he was before the presence of  
Deus, he listened to their voices while their mouths  
remained shut..." Apollo trailed off, waiting for a reaction  
and perceiving her body slightly quivering at his side.  
"That they revealed to him all sorts of mysteries about the  
creation of man and its destiny," he continued. "I've found  
out that The Man Without a Name, prophesized about the  
Destruction Day and The Great Exodus following the  
Holocaust, Sheba, when The Children of Kobol would be  
finally be betrayed and smashed by The Children of the  
Fulmen."  
  
"Fulmen?"  
  
"Actually, an ancient Scorpion word for 'Mace'. His sect's  
favorite term for the Cylon Empire. Dominion by smashing."  
He closed his fingers in a fist.  
  
Sheba stared at the captain's clenched hand. "Brutal force.  
He doesn't sound like a freak to me..."  
  
Apollo nodded excitedly, and then continued his explanation,  
speaking almost without pause, "Maces forged of metal, he  
differentiated these, symbolically, from the maces made of  
rock and animal skins, which the Nomen 's ancient tribes  
were so fond of and revere as a sacred object in their  
rituals, even nowadays."  
  
He stopped briefly, just for a few milimicrons, to be  
certain that Sheba was following his thoughts. "In Maldek's  
figurative language, maces made of animal skins, like the  
Nomem's, were akin to the domination by use of instinctual  
forces, through animalism. In the exact opposite end, the  
Cylons, The Fulmen of Metal, would conquer, smashing by the  
use of-"  
  
"Cold mind," Sheba completed his statement, her thoughts so  
connected to Apollo's, that it seemed as if the boundaries  
between their minds were hazy now.  
  
"Yes..." Apollo said in quiet amazement, reveling again in  
the new-found comprehension bridging their souls. He had  
once believed that there was no one to share these things  
with. What had been in that ambrosa? Why was he feeling so  
surprisingly fulfilled? He did not understand.  
Sheba was an answer for a question he had never asked.  
  
They gazed at each other, smiling in that rare mutual  
contentment that follows silent agreements, and both felt a  
surge of familiarity, as if they had already known each  
other since long before they had ever met. Sheba and the  
room were too ethereal now, slowly swirling around the  
captain's head.  
  
This time, he did not resist the impulse to make physical  
contact, and he reached out his free arm through the void in  
between them, bringing it around her shoulders, pulling her  
close and enjoying the feel of her body, as she shyly  
snuggled against him on the couch.  
  
Sheba felt all tenseness in her body dissolve as her muscles  
relaxed under the dark-haired warrior`s virile and  
protective embrace. A sweet torpor of the senses making the  
realization of this yearned-for moment almost unreal for  
her.  
  
She had sensed in his words all the intensity of emotions he  
had been carefully guarding from even his closest friends.  
If, before, Sheba had felt like a stranger never totally  
allowed in that inner space of his own, now, she felt an  
immeasurable joy that he was finally letting her in. Sheba  
knew that she had been admitted into his very own reserved  
world. The space where only too few could enter and belong  
there. The realm in which Apollo really lived.  
  
His Celestial Dome.  
  
"You know," she continued with languid voice, "it reminds  
me... my Father used to say that too much reasoning made any  
tactics too predictable. He always liked to strike the  
Cylons in the most illogical ways. He also said that too  
much pondering made the Council a council of -"  
  
"Sheba!" Apollo chuckled, instinctively resting his chin on  
her head and smelling her hair like he used to do with  
Serina. "I know very well the adjectives that your Father  
used to use, when referring to the Council. Cain certainly  
never followed any book of law other than his own... Well,  
perhaps that's why he was the greatest strategist ever born  
in all the Colonies."  
  
Commander Adama's high moral and ethical standards, properly  
instilled into his son's character, prevented Apollo from,  
most of the time, addressing the Council with insulting  
words. Even though he himself might have thought of adding  
some of the choicest adjectives to Cain's dictionary  
sometimes.  
  
Despite his proclaimed admiration for Cain, though, very  
deeply inside, Apollo could not totally agree with the proud  
commander`s inherent predatory philosophy.  
Apollo was a warrior because he had no better choice.  
He was not an innate predator. He was a warrior because he  
had an extraordinary capability to concentrate all of his  
talents, mental energies and organic forces to lock onto a  
target and fight the impossible. And because he was adept at  
that which he had been taught since the day he was born into  
a hostile cradle of worlds in war: Resistance.  
  
Under his arm, Sheba was smiling that fancy, proud smile of  
hers, inevitable whenever her father was mentioned with  
deserved admiration. "On the night of Holocaust, the Council  
pondered and reasoned naively and missed the obvious, my  
Father said. They did it all wrong."  
  
Apollo twinged at the memory of that tragic night, when  
Hades broke loose to swallow up all of humankind, and the  
greatest bloodshed of History in the Colonies unfolded  
horridly before their helpless eyes. Death was on the hunt,  
and all tribes of men had paid a high price for a single  
wrong decision of the Council.  
  
Apollo squirmed in discomfort. He always got restless like  
that, every time he remembered learning of the trapped  
military immobilization imposed by the Council before that  
overwhelming Cylon raid.  
  
The decision to hold back all fighters and avoid appearances  
of a confrontation had led to no other battlestars, save the  
Galactica, being able to launch their vipers, when the ruse  
had been revealed. He gasped. He could not stand his own  
memories of the centars that followed that fatal decision.  
  
The desperation as he raced to the bridge with news of the  
deception, after leaving behind, in foul deadly battle, his  
own inexperienced baby brother, Zac, ambushed alone and  
defenseless against legions of cylon fighters. To find out  
that he was too late...  
  
The sudden realization of the true extent of Cylon's ambush,  
and the torture of those anxious moments as he, his  
father,and the entire bridge crew of the Galactica had  
watched the transmissions of Caprica's destruction on the  
monitors, while the battlestar raced towards their  
homeworlds. All of his warrior instincts bombarded  
adrenaline into his system, readying him for combat, urging  
him to react, to dive in and save the Colonies! Yet, the  
shear devastating size of the Cylon attack force had made a  
mockery of any such thoughts of resistance.  
  
Apollo suddenly pulled back, his body automatically fighting  
the memory of inaction, and stood up nervously."Misguided  
good faith," he whispered quietly, trying to placate the  
fury stinging within.  
  
"Stupidity!" Sheba muttered, missing the warmth of the  
contact and, somewhat dizzily, standing up too, picking up  
the forgotten book on the couch. "Did he really prophesize  
the Destruction?" She asked, waving her empty glass  
meaningfully at him.  
  
Apollo quickly shook the oppressive thoughts off and, moving  
himself tardily, poured her another generous dose. Then he  
took the book and, without any difficulty, Sheba noticed,  
found immediately the page he was looking for.  
  
Under the dimmed light in the quarters, Apollo moved to the  
side of the porthole. His handsome face was bathed by the  
pale light of the starfield outside as he read slowly,  
sounding like he knew each word by heart:  
  
"In the middle of the great night of Rejoicing at the  
Seventh, when peace is poured in a broken chalice, beware!  
Birds of Prey hide behind the clouds, and The White Dolphins  
shelter the Dark Leviathan amongst them.  
  
"The Tricephalos will order the End of the Days. Like a dark  
cluster obliterating the light of the stars, terror will  
rain down from the twelve skies. The Children of the Fulmen  
will triumph over The Children of Kobol.  
  
"Cursed be the Forged Metal`s Beast, because the mechanical  
abortion of reason could give itself unnatural birth.Because  
he is hungry for flesh and blood and will come for the  
harvest.  
  
"Cry, Kobol! Not even your newborns will be spared.  
When the Fulmen rises to judge, it smashes down to kill."  
  
Sheba moved to the other side of the porthole,  
thunderstruck. "What else did he say?"  
  
Apollo turned the page and, as easily as the first time,  
found another text, pronouncing the words even before his  
eyes were reading them:  
  
"All Hail, Holy Bennou, The Bird of Resurrection, carrying  
the Immortal Seed of Man across the space! I've witnessed  
your awakening through the flames of Destruction, when you  
rose from the ashes before your enemies! I've seen you  
spread your incandescent wings, let out your cry of war, and  
soar, defying the Death.  
  
"All Hail, Adam Kadmon, The Lord of The Wings escorting Holy  
Bennou's solitaire quest to the Promised Star! I've  
witnessed your victorious crusade amid the storms. In skies  
of hot winds and danger, your legion of Winged Serpents are  
ferocious arrows of fire, lightening and thunder!  
  
"All Hail, The Hallowed Arrival, The Day of the Redemption  
breaking in New Kobol's firmament! I've witnessed Earth`s  
dumbfounded dawning, when the Celestial Convoy finally  
alighted from heavens."  
  
"Apollo!" Sheba said astonished, her eyes fixed on a distant  
quasar pulsing light- yahrens away. "This man has seen Adama  
and the Galactica, the Fleet and the warriors! And he saw  
us 500 yahrens ago! He says we'll arrive on Earth one day...  
Maldek's really seen into the future!?"  
  
Apollo now gazed at the dark immensity outside, too. "The  
Man without a Name says that those beings he met and  
unveiled him the unknown live in a dimension outside our  
space-time continuum. Past and future would be overlaid  
realities for them there... or, perhaps, probabilities only!  
Basics of the Theory of the Variables, Sheba, remember?" he  
shot back, smiling wryly.  
  
The captain, then, turned around and frowned. "Maldek said  
that Deus were faceless entities. Diffuse, translucent  
sketches in anthropoid form. Their facial traits were not  
clear, except for their eyes..." Apollo spoke calmly but  
intently, measuring Sheba's reaction to each of his words.  
"Big, slanted eyes, Sheba. Full of wisdom and knowledge,  
looking through..."  
  
Sheba shuddered at a sparkling flash of memory of such  
familiar eyes, piercing through her soul.  
  
"He said that, when you looked at them, it was like looking  
at every man and woman and child ever born..." Apollo  
continued, barely controlling his own conflicting emotions  
and searching for a shade of comprehension in her eyes.  
  
Sheba's eyes fluttered slightly then. Apollo had finally  
reached the target he seemed to have been aiming at since  
the beginning of their conversation that night. Despite  
herself, Sheba smiled slightly, but there was tacit  
complicity in her mirthless smile.  
  
How could there not be?  
Both Sheba and Starbuck had had the same fanciful experience  
as he had, not long ago, back on the Red Planet where  
Apollo's final confrontation with the shadowy and evil Count  
Iblis was still a nebulous and implausible reminiscence of  
both doom and resurgence. They felt strongly that they had  
seen the face of death and depletion in Iblis` hands. But  
the three of them also remembered that a mysterious and  
fantastic race of beings, The Beings of Light, opposing  
Iblis`dark hand, had come to unexpected rescue.  
  
Sheba quite remembered the strange ships of light following  
close the Galactica by that time. She knew, now, that they  
were vigilant and guarding them. She also recalled them  
crowding the skies of Iblis` Red Planet, all in scout  
formation, performing wonderful maneuvers, right after  
when something...  
  
Something very important... and painful had happened...  
  
She didn`t remember what, but she had dreamed of visiting a  
temple, then. The lost and fuzzy memories of their encounter  
with them, though, were undeniably permeated with strong  
emotional and sensorial impressions of awe, magic and  
miracle.  
  
A collective hallucination had been a discarded  
justification for their outlandish adventure and its  
outcome, when they had tried to piece together their  
incomplete memories later, unsuccessfully, and bridge the  
illogical gaps. Extraordinary events had surely happened to  
them, but they had rarely talked about it since then, afraid  
to remove the blocks. Reason would play evasive tricks to  
defend itself from the unknown.  
  
Apollo was breaking their implicit pact of silence now, and  
Sheba nodded in agreement. He was deeply touched by that. "I  
remember I felt like that, too. Looking at those beings'  
eyes was like looking at everyone I've ever loved in my  
life," Cain's daughter confessed. Her dark eyes were emoting  
a tender longing and involving Apollo in a familiar,  
compassionate way, the way that the entities of The Ship of  
the Lights had once before done so, he realized.  
  
Soaring on the ambrosa, he leaned against the wall and  
listened to her. The same way as when he was alone in his  
Celestial Dome, he was finding himself now in contemplative  
deliverance, but it was the first time that he had shared  
such a personal moment with anyone else. With Sheba, among  
all people, he realized that he felt safe, permissive of her  
intimacy.  
  
While she chose another text in the book of the Dead Sun's  
Prophet and read it out loud, he smiled, amused. Her voice  
was a melodious, innocent contrast to Maldek's apocalyptic  
discourses. Apollo felt tranquil.  
  
"Light-yahrens away from this space and time, on a valley of  
two rivers in the Gammadion Galaxy's Heart, there stands a  
Temple divided.  
  
"On one side, Leo stands vigilant. He cocks His Solar Head  
and frowns, listening to His Children's terror screams, lost  
and far from home. Their helpless cries for their Father are  
like wailings amidst the bloodshed of the shadowy Kaly Yuga,  
The Long Cosmic Night.  
From the top of His mountain, Leo roars ferociously at Draco  
on the other side. So enraged is He, that His howl shakes  
the very Temple to its foundations and almost ceases The  
Gammadion Galaxy's spin. His raving is heard by every star:  
  
"Ahriman-Shaitan, Iblis who never submits! May the blood of  
My children fall over your damned head tonight!  
Because Mine were harmed when they dined on My Nectar and  
Ambrosa, from the top of My Mountain, I now curse your  
infernal cave! Throughout the yahrens without end, you are  
cursed to crawl after My Human Creation, craving for My  
Solar Fire in their souls, which you, Child of The Shadows,  
cannot have!  
  
"I am the Day and you are the Night, you are Dark and I am  
Light, you are Wrong and I am Right; two can not rule over  
one Temple and only one of the two rivers can kill My  
Creation`s thirst. I am the Lord of The Sun-Wheels, I Am the  
Almighty Lord of Sabaoth, Whose Hand defends My Children and  
stands implacably between you and Them.  
  
"Iblis Draco, I now declare the Jihad! You have aroused My  
Divine Fury and I now summon My Light Legions to rise and  
march against the umbrae of your ominous void. Fear in your  
Cave, because this is The Armageddon being declared.  
Ahriman-Shaitan, You alone have brought upon your armies  
this Most Holy War!  
  
"And the perpetual war between good and evil was started  
anew. It will last infinitely, until the end of  
everlastingness.  
  
"This all shall be allowed, so that, twelve times dead, man  
shall rise from his own ashes. So that man knows what is at  
his right and what is at his left; what is evil and what is  
good. While the two rivers are not an ocean and leos are not  
dracos, the one is not the other, and neither can yet become  
The One."  
  
"Iblis..." Sheba trailed off, cautiously. "Dracos and Leos.  
It seems that Maldek had glimpses at some sort of conflict  
happening beyond the reaches of our understanding, isn`t it?  
Just like..." She widened her eyes as memory struck. "Like  
what we were told by the Beings of Light we met, Apollo!  
I remember that!"  
  
The Captain touched her shoulder reassuringly, while Sheba`s  
pieces of memories seemed to surface and she, astoundedly,  
meditated on that strange encounter. "They told us that they  
fight a common foe, too... They fight Iblis, The Draco,  
Ahriman-Shaitan in Maldek's allegory. If that fits in the  
puzzle, what if Maldek`s right when he also mentions The  
Gammadion Cross?!" she added excitedly. "The Sun-Wheel's  
emblem of the apocrypha, the shape of the galaxy where Earth  
is believed to be located, according to them!"  
  
"The Books of the Dead Sun, yeah... Kobol`s Sun," the  
captain odded, frowning while a shadow crossed his face.  
For him, dead Kobol was Serina's arid and desolate  
sepulcher, where his own heart had found its precocious  
graveyard. "The Dead Sun's Prophets, the pariah forecasters  
who claimed that Kobol`s children, and even every human,  
would ascend to light and resurrection throughout death and  
shadows of the Chaos," he continued gravely.  
  
Then, he stared at the book in Sheba's hands, pointing to  
its cover. "The Prophet Without a Name claimed that he saw  
Earth, too, spinning like a little jewel in the fringes of  
one of the Gammadion Galaxy`s arms. That The One Who Sees  
through Many Eyes... Deus, those... group soul entities,  
possibly, took him to a desert region on Earth."  
  
"For Platon`s sake! And what did Maldek say that he saw  
there on Earth, Apollo?" Sheba asked, looking for her glass  
and sipping again, gazing at him curiously.  
  
"The Prophet Without a Name said that he saw three pyramid  
buildings and a winged Leo Sphinx sitting on the sand. It  
stands there, Maldek preached, alert and facing the East  
where Leo` Sun-Wheel rises everyday, guarding the Light for  
all of the Thirteenth Tribes of Man, until the end of The  
Kaly Yuga, The Shadows Age. The Earth Sphinx's traits show  
off no restlessness!" Apollo spoke, sounding as if Maldek's  
words were his own. "There's no dread on the Sphinx's placid  
face. Leo never fears..." He turned his face to gaze over at  
Sheba, and she looked undisturbed. Once again, a warm  
electric current pleasantly swept through his whole body.  
  
There was a majestic gravity of on the captain's features,  
too. Sheba understood it. It was faith. "The Sphinx on Earth  
sees everything that ever was and that ever shall be.  
It watches what no man can see, the Celestial Rivers flowing  
distantly amongst the stars and the solar ships sailing on  
them," Apollo continued. "It listens to the planets and is  
telling of silent secrets understood only by those who know  
how to hear the Prophet's tongue. The Sphinx says that,  
after death and depletion of dark nights, we should always  
contemplate the sunrises, where plenitude is, because  
resurrection and the certainty's serenity burns in its  
flames..."  
  
"The certainty's serenity," Sheba repeated, looking at the  
cover again, deep in thought. So that was where Apollo's  
assured quietness had been coming from. He had finally found  
something to believe in. "Then, supposing that Maldek is  
right, the Great Pyramid and the Sphinx are really lined up  
to those constellations seen from Earth's surface in this  
illustration."  
  
"Yeah, probably, the same as Kobol`s buildings, which were  
reportedly lined up to zodiacal regions in the stars.  
As to Leo and Draco`s allegories though, they are two of the  
many faces of Deus, two polarized principles constantly  
repeated all over Maldek`s texts. Both sound like  
translations of thermodynamic laws, too, sometimes... they  
are described as inhabiting The Gammadion Galaxy's explosive  
nucleus, Sheba. The axis where The Divided Temple, akin to a  
black hole and a quasar, rotate."  
  
"The faces of Deus... and when we met Deus, we`ve seen those  
two faces too, Apollo. You, Starbuck and I saw Leo, The  
Beings of Light, and we've all met the dark Count Iblis,  
Maldek`s Draco, too!"  
  
"Leo and Draco`s representatives, more properly, Sheba,  
yeah. The same way as we ourselves are representatives as  
well, in a lower scale. I mean, by The Dead Sun`s writings,  
we`re all Deus, remember? If you recall my Father`s words,  
we`re always caught in the fight between good and evil...  
we`re all part of this cosmic drama, but all in different  
levels of awareness!" Apollo stated as he excitedly finished  
his glass of ambrosa, still sounding relieved that Sheba was  
not avoiding to talk about their strange past experience.  
  
"I understand..." Sheba said, laconically.  
  
"It seems to me, though, that Leo and Draco's allegories are  
still pale depictions for two opposite principles of an even  
higher order form than those we met. I mean, Maldek`s fables  
and many other legends and religious scriptures, they all  
depict the most ancestral cosmic origin of those two  
sources. Those would be even more untranslatable into our  
human concept and limited words. That`s why they can only be  
spoken about in the Prophet`s Tongue too."  
  
"The Beings of Light and Iblis were closer representatives  
of those two opposite sources. It`s like meeting Deus face  
to face, for us..." Sheba concluded. "Should two polar  
principles in perpetual opposition only merge by conflict?"  
She suddenly asked mischievously, stealing him a gaze.  
  
Apollo shook his head, blushing slightly, and chuckled  
mirthfully as he looked down at the floor. "I guess not..."  
he muttered flattered. "While they`re both part of Deus,  
antagonistic or complementary, there`s gotta be other less  
painful ways for the extremes to touch..." he trailed off.  
  
"While the one is not the other and neither can yet become  
The One." Sheba echoed Maldek`s words, amused at Apollo`s  
shy ways. "Iblis and the Beings of Light," she continued  
then, in a serious tune as she rest her cup on the table and  
came back to sit on the couch. "You truely believe, then,  
that they aren`t gods or angels, but, really, a very  
sophisticated species, as your Father says?"  
  
"I believe so, yeah. To me, Iblis and his adversaries, the  
Beings of Light, were a race whose long life` span and  
advanced level of evolution has just brought them near to  
personifications of those two original sources -- The Leo  
and The Draco --, whether forever battling or denying each  
other; forever merging together too... in the Center of  
Everything. That`s what I believe..." the captain  
half-smiled, self-satisfied with his own assessments.  
  
Sheba grinned, after pondering gravely over his words. "We  
battle and deny one another, too," she said, chuckling at  
Apollo`s weird stare at her. "Amongst our own species, and  
also with the others, I mean..." she mended. "And you're an  
expert at Maldek's philosophies, it seems. Perhaps, Apollo,  
you yourself have seen the same visions..." she prodded.  
"Is that what it's all about with you in the Celestial  
Dome?"  
  
The captain tightened his lips in an enigmatic grin. He did  
not answer. It was not necessary.  
  
Leaning once more against the wall, close to the porthole,  
he closed his eyes part way, feeling his senses swim. Lulled  
by the dizziness, his vision turned inward. His thoughts  
drifted, then soared free for a brief moment...  
  
Maldek's beloved Bennou, The Bird of Resurrection's image,  
spreading its giant incandescent wings, flying out of the  
flames of destruction and twirling in his mind again.  
The resplendent Gammadion Galaxy spinning in majestic  
tranquility, with its swirling arms open, waiting eternally  
for them. The Sphinx's undisturbed face looking at the sun  
and staring at him: The Certainty's serenity...  
  
Without surprise, he started to recollect, steered by the  
pariah prophet`s visions, that which he had only peered at,  
when he used to be alone in his Celestial Dome. Sheba's  
nearness, he sensed, was like a peaceful harbor, anchoring  
him safe while allowing him to drift away. At that time, he  
remembered...  
  
Iblis' curse aiming his lethal hand at Sheba...  
Apollo, instinctively, jumping to shield her.  
A blast of a sick, sparking green blowing off his cells.  
A malignant green, luciferic. And then, overwhelming  
darkness...  
  
Starbuck's heard frantic cry was his last attempted grasp on  
life. Starbuck, his guardian, his safeguard! His zealous  
buddy would not let go of him. He desperately tried to hold  
onto that mighty bond that secured him to his earnest friend  
and to life. He could feel Starbuck's excruciating  
attraction force demanding, urging, battling to pull his  
soul near again to him. He could sense, almost palpably, the  
outraged power of that stupendous friendship, like a  
magnetic field of love, struggling to keep their nexus  
intact and forcing him back, unharmed.  
  
Useless.  
  
Gravity compelled him downwards violently, breaking off the  
link. Aghast, he felt his heart ripping apart when he was  
abruptly thrust loose, and gravity dragged him away from  
that tenacious affection he knew so well, mercilessly  
hurling him down, lost into the wells of the unknown. A  
fall. A vertiginous dive into lightlessness...  
  
The Great Abyss. The Draco's Cave. All gravity of the  
universe revolving and converging massively to that  
monstrous hollow outside the space-time continuum.  
  
No... The Gammadion Cross spinning in the wrong direction!  
It was as if the whole cosmos had decided to collapse  
against its own center, right into that abhorrent and  
fabulous void. He was hauled down into terror, into the  
gross infrared primitiveness of life in its early Chaos,  
before Order took place.  
  
Dissolution. Uttermost panic.  
  
It was like descending into a state of non-beingness,  
trapped in a cimmerian and infernal womb. Contraction only,  
restricting all possibility of any expanding force... A  
flashing awareness of how darkness constrains itself, until  
collapsed and fragmented pieces of itself are thrown out  
against the whole, reproducing themselves endlessly, like  
cloning cells, to occupy the system.  
Iblis Draco and his armies. The Cylons. Negativity.  
Diabolis, the Divider. Fragmentation.  
A Temple divided in two.  
  
... Deus?  
  
He resisted and his resistance was child of the first  
resistance force ever known in Creation, The Oppositor's.  
That was how it was like. Ahriman-Shaitan, The Principle of  
Inertia. Immobilization. The void replete of denseness.  
  
He was dead and Hades was cold.  
  
Sudden doldrums, while he felt himself wafting about the  
epicenter of that colossal black vortex, sheltered within  
that smothering and engulfing womb, delivering himself to  
the welcome forgetfulness. Oblivious of the Holocaust and  
the war. All recollection of Serina and of all the dead and  
living forgotten at last...  
  
Repelling life and the risks of a sentient existence.  
Anesthetized forever from pain or joy.  
Finally, benumbed and shielded.  
  
Doomed.  
  
The Draco hides in the eye of the void and he was crawling  
near, soon approaching to feed on light and eat his heart  
away...  
  
The Fiat Lux.  
  
He would not have known what a miraculous force it was,  
except that, all of a sudden, its light penetrated his  
shield of passive resistance and jarred him awake from his  
deathly sleep. It was like a distant blast flaring through  
his immobilization that made him shudder, radiating heat,  
shaking the imperious inertia in the void.  
He heard hissing prays, wailings and muffled cries, as he  
struggled to snap out of his dormancy.  
An elusive memory that was once part of his life did  
recognize those rustles agitating storms on those nightly  
skies, darting like flashes of lightening across his deep  
unconsciousness.  
  
The Winged Serpents, his loved ones! They were wounded and  
mourning for him, offering to trade their lives for his,  
diving down into the void for rescue and redemption...  
  
There was an outraged turmoil amidst that unlit ocean, when  
a seditious spark of self awareness ignited in his heart and  
Love spread like wildfire, washing through him, charging  
every cell in his soul. Love. He loved them!  
  
Love, an insult here in this place...  
  
That insurrection caused darkness to slowly revolve back and  
retreat as Light began to besiege and advance, forcing  
expansion in that contracting cave.  
  
A bone-crushing thunder started to reverberate all around.  
Leo's Solar Head roaring and shaking Hades.  
He frowned, glared, and opened fire. Claiming back His  
Divine Power over Life and countermanding The Gammadion  
Cross, His Sun-Wheel, to reverse its deadly swirl.  
  
The Giant Spiral's whirling arms jolted and halted under  
Leo's overthrowing charge, switching its direction and  
launching away the vacuum in its mighty spin.  
  
Amidst the huge impact of that collision, his awed human  
soul felt like a tiny speck of dust clashing against The  
Gammadion's scalding nucleus. In the heat of that fusion,  
Leo`s Radiant Crown was radioactive, permeating through  
everything; invading, dilating, illuminating and  
miraculously impregnating His Seed in the hollow of the  
Universe. His formidable Fire of Resurrection flaming like a  
rising star.  
  
It was like all light of Creation decided to burst out and  
revolve around its own center, expanding massively right out  
of that place, furiously expelling shadows outwards and  
throwing up the void. A sudden awareness of how Light never  
fragments to occupy, but amplifies Itself and becomes the  
Whole. Positivity. The One Made of Many Is. The Unifier...  
  
...Deus!  
  
Without warning, he was struck by a beam of golden white  
light. A benign golden white. Holy.  
A rise. A vertiginous Ascention into darklessness...  
  
Absence of gravity hauling him upwards to the dazzling  
whiteness of a Quasar. Aloft, he was drawn aboard a huge  
vessel made of effulgent and rarefied substance, pulsing  
like a giant beacon in the sidereal darkness of space.  
  
The Merkabah...  
  
A familiar high pitch hummed in his brain, as if an  
invisible hand was turning a cosmic dial and setting a  
modulation, adjusting him into a distinct frequency. Sudden  
hush then, when he was slowly held within a comfortable wave  
length, and a  
Supernatural Moistened Presence seemed to sink in and fill  
every little emptiness within. He felt rocked in a  
translucent cradle, floating in warm, illuminated waters, as  
ethereal hands gently caressed him, calming and healing,  
lulling strange white promises in his ears. He could sense  
the vaporous human forms aboard that  
crystalline craft when they crowded around him.  
He did not need to open his eyes to perceive them, as they  
seemed to  
move in a fluid, suspended dimension in between worlds;  
their existences hanging inside and outside all alternate  
realities.  
  
Through his closed eyes, he could see through theirs, and  
knew of the exotic lands they had been to and the immaterial  
realms they had traveled through. Whenever he attempted to  
reach out for them, their malleable forms shifted and he,  
alternately, felt as if he were looking at all people he had  
ever known or would ever meet.  
  
The set of faces shifted to Serina, his brother Zac, Athena,  
Boomer, his Mother Ila, his Father Adama, Boxey... where  
were Starbuck and Sheba? Sometimes, in the weirdest shift,  
surprisingly dizzy, he thought he was looking back at  
himself.  
Tarnia and Copernicus also seemed to move near by.  
  
Copernicus... something special about him; he was so much  
like those fantastic beings. What was it about him? Did he  
know how to speak their untranslatable tongue?  
  
Maldek and all Prophets of the Dead Sun were there, too.  
  
He understood.  
The Great Omnipresent Spiral inside and outside the  
space-time continuum. Those beings made of liquified  
luminance and their whiteness - they were the  
undifferentiated bridge, the pure translation of the Primal  
Light, where all colored lifeforms of the spectrum came  
from. They were everyone and no one, all races ever created  
and  
none of them too. They lived in the present time of the past  
and the future. They were male and female, one and many at  
the same time. Always both.  
  
They were Oneness.  
  
The snake swallowing its own tail...  
There was never a beginning, and there was never an end in  
that point where life and death overlapped each other. The  
dead loved ones were glowing faces looking down at him so  
tenderly, now, speaking to him of unveiled mysteries in the  
Prophet's  
Tongue.  
  
A lacerating pain in his heart, as realization struck.  
  
Deliverance. He had to surrender. He had to let go of them  
and of the retained grieves, angers and fears of the war,  
and forgo his own defenses to the vulnerability of the  
feelings, to the dangerous conflicts of a sentient life.  
  
He realized and feared no more.  
  
Finally allowing himself to submerge deeper into that lit  
ocean of liquid light where he was tepidly contained. The  
repressed emotions started to flow like a flood, as pain and  
joy, high pressured in the depths, burst out, boiling and  
smelting the invulnerable shield of resistance built upon  
his chest into a sanguine, sensitive and throbbing membrane  
around his heart.  
  
When he emerged soaked from those fertilized waters, the  
savor of the pathos tasted like absinthe and ambrosa in his  
mouth.  
Something had died and another something had been born at  
the same time, but he was not sure what that something was.  
He only knew that Leo`s Hand had halted the Draco, and that  
Holy Bennou hovered over his head...  
  
He whispered his goodbyes to his dead loved ones then,  
knowing that farewells and death do and do not exist. A  
smashing weight was lift off his breast and he felt a  
profound relief. His dead loved ones kissed him goodbye,  
blowing a gentle breath of life into his lips, and flowed  
away, streaming in peace, back into the rivers of his heart,  
now bombarded with a flood of hot blood, full force, back  
into the veins.  
  
"All right, yes... if that's possible... I'll trade my life  
for Apollo's!" A teary, dear female voice tided close, so  
full of love that its undulation rocked him awake.  
  
Resurrection.  
  
From the feet to the head, the white, aqueous Primal Light  
laid its hot waves of vital force through his body, and the  
organic engine restarted its interrupted work...  
  
Vaguely confused, he sighed deeply as a drop of blood was  
shed into his lungs and he moved slowly, feeling the stamina  
come back to the muscles. He opened his eyes to see how the  
deities looked on the outside.  
  
They looked like a sobbing Sheba bolting into his arms.  
"Apollo! You're alive... It's a miracle!" Hanging onto her  
fervent embrace, he saw a whimpering Starbuck a short  
distance behind her, aboard that strange ship too; his eyes  
tenderly clasped on his captain, hesitantly shy to approach  
and swallowing hard to repress his overwhelming emotions.  
  
Apollo felt like they were all moving in a gaseous,  
radioactive realm, whose radiance of unconditional love  
emitting from everyone and everything around made them feel  
lighter, ascended, fluid and easily blendable into one.  
  
Sheba and Starbuck felt like living, sentient parts of his  
own soul and body. Their exalted emotions felt like his own.  
More than ever, fingers of the same hand.  
  
"I don't know who you are, but whatever you want from me,  
you can have..." the lieutenant's choked voice sounded  
tamely through the misty atmosphere inside that dreamlike  
vessel, when he, too, offered his own life in trade for the  
miracle of Apollo's resuscitation.  
While Sheba cried convulsively and pressed the captain  
tightly to her body, Starbuck stood pathetically alone among  
the ghostly forms around him.  
  
Apollo saddened as he felt a wounded and isolated Starbuck,  
both deprived and greedy, looking like a forlorn little  
child before the spiritual authority of the entities aboard  
that Ship of Lights.  
He had never sensed his friend so transparently exposed like  
that before. Brought at bay by love and surrender, the  
detached Starbuck was the most affec tionate man Apollo ever  
knew. And he was the loneliest of all too...  
  
Nothing was asked in return for Apollo's life, though. The  
trade had been just a bluffing abnegation test. Their lives  
had never been the bet at stake.  
  
Light never ever bargains.  
  
"Now, it's time for you to return..." The One Who Speaks  
through Many Mouths declared, turning the radioactive face  
to the side and fading away into diffused glistening dust.  
  
Apollo felt dizzy and sick to his stomach as the high pitch  
echoed in his brain again, re-tuning him back out of The  
Merkabah to his material life's frequency. Back to the good  
and evil, realistic dream of humankind's saga.  
  
"Apollo, snap out of it!" Sheba's worried call broke through  
the noisy dial adjusting the syntony in his head.  
He jolted back, his body limp and his eyes glazed. He tried  
to refocus on her tangible face, replacing now the Being of  
Light's faded image that still lingered in his mind. He lay  
on the couch, with Sheba kneeling next to him. She had  
watched, startled, as he had sagged abruptly, but even under  
the swaying effects of the liquor, she had managed to catch  
him before he fell to the floor and had pulled him to the  
sofa.  
  
"Sheba..." he reached out to touch her, trying to reorient  
himself.  
  
"Apollo, are you all right?" She demanded, stroking his  
sweated forehead and studying his face. "You were just  
staring, like in a trance..."  
  
"I guess... I guess I took a trip..." he attempted a joke,  
looking around, as if making sure that he was back into his  
quarters. "How long was I out?" he asked, confused.  
  
She frowned, still checking him over, relaxing only when the  
captain half smiled and sat up, amused at her concern. "Only  
a few microns, but I thought you were having an apoplexy or  
something! You really scared me. What happened to you,  
Apollo?" she demanded seriously, looking divine to him in  
her gracious severity. Her face glowing near, while she  
pierced her slanted dark eyes through him.  
  
Oblivious to Sheba's question though, pensively, Apollo  
reached out his right hand to hold hers, and, looking down  
at them, clasped together, he said, "You know, Sheba, Maldek  
really sounds right to me. The more spiritually advanced a  
species is, the closer to a single unique spiritual identity  
they must really tend to become..." he lifted his eyes to  
meet hers again and seemed to pursue a hidden meaning on her  
traits. "Perhaps, from another realm's perspective, much  
broader than this one we live in, all people we love...  
perhaps, even those we don`t... they`re all really  
individual expressions of the same one greater essence,  
too," he added softly.  
  
Sheba still looked at him cautiously. Apollo rarely answered  
anyone's questions when he was deeply concentrating on his  
own thoughts, anyway, but his ceaseless eloquence focusing  
on Maldek made her feel a little concerned about his mental  
lucidity now. She was relieved, though, that Apollo seemed  
to be physically fine, despite his brief blackout.  
  
Notwithstanding, he was so enchanting, soaked in that mellow  
philosophical passion of his own. His voice sounded husky  
and his eyes were shining an uncommon green, fluid and  
sensual. His hand holding hers felt too warm and strong as  
the sharp sensitivity of the liquor still flowed sweetly  
through her body.  
  
She enjoyed the sensation as she glanced down at their  
clasped hands too, and felt herself enlured again to keep  
trailing on Apollo's reflections. "My memories of The Ship  
of Lights seem like a dream... like having been into a  
surreal temple in space. I remember more... I remember when  
those beings said that we may become as they are. Would they  
be our future, then?" She asked thoughtfully, trying to  
reconcile her own memories with his considerations.  
  
"From our linear time's point of view down here,  
figuratively, yeah... they'd be our future. But from theirs,  
when I recall their realm, now, certain limits and frontiers  
there were so... undifferentiated... that past and future  
were  
almost a blurred, simultaneous concept for them."  
  
"I guess I could almost say the same, too, from the little  
that I recall from that place... What I know for sure is  
that I did feel that they were not unlike us! I`d agree that  
I did feel like we were individual reflections of that same  
Intelligence. A spiritual, sensitive Intelligence, though,  
far different of what the cylons material group mind could  
ever, ever dream of!"  
  
"Cylons don`t dream, Sheba!" Apollo laughed.  
  
"Thanks, captain, my fault," she grinned. "You know, that  
place still comes up as a temple in my mind..." Sheba  
sighed, shaking her head. "That`s how I can only translate  
it, it seems. The Ship of Lights, The Home of the Gods or  
The Merkabah, they`re just another label, Apollo," Sheba  
said assertively.  
  
"To each one, the label that serves them best, yeah. The  
Merkabah sounds accurate to me, because they and their  
'ship' were not quite like a place, Sheba... 'a place' is  
not the right word. Maldek feels right to me about this.  
Rather than in a place, I feel more like we met them... in a  
realm made of a different frequency state, just like when we  
dream and our brain waves shift. I even remember having  
thought that some kind of a wave frequency was being  
modulated in my brain, before they contacted me... as if our  
brain-wave length had to be heightened in order to allow  
communication with them..."  
  
"That high pitch noise in the brain before we were taken  
aboard!" Sheba exclaimed. "It felt like radio frequencies  
shifting, yes! I guess you're right about the brain-wave  
modulation, Apollo."  
  
The dark haired warrior smiled gratefully at her again.  
"Their extraordinary powers and evolutionary level, perhaps  
aeons ahead of us, make us see them almost as deities, if  
compared. Yet, I can`t help but feel them as advanced  
versions of ourselves. Just as if... just as if they were  
the palm," he raised their clasped hands before her eyes,  
"and we were the fingers of the same hand."  
  
"The Hand of God!" She whispered smiling. "And Count  
Iblis... Just like we were talking about our having met both  
polarized sources, a while ago, he was one of their own kind  
too," she continued, suddenly gravely. "I even remember we  
were told so, by The Beings of Light. Then, if we place him  
in this metaphor, Count Iblis would be..." she trailed off,  
frowning.  
  
Acknowledging her abstraction, Apollo meaningfully raised  
his free left hand now. "Yes... Draco also has many  
facades... the hand on the left is also a close metaphor for  
the sinister dissident we met. One of the many, if that  
matters. The left, dark hand of darkness. Absence of life,  
love and truth. Resistance of life, love and truth.  
Opposition to light..." he mumbled, lowering his head and  
stroking her hand tenderly. "I was in the dark and blind,  
Sheba. But, now, I think I`m beginning to see it..."  
  
Sheba glanced at her chronometer instinctively.  
They did not have much time left until the start of the next  
cycle, and she had no idea of how they'd both face their  
military duty in their present condition. Sighing sadly,  
Sheba realized that she had enjoyed every moment of their  
reflective intimacy that night; yet, none of their  
speculations  
really answered the one remaining riddle, aching unsolved in  
her heart.  
  
Time to face the truth for her then, when she resolved that  
the unanswered question was an answer in itself. Apollo  
would never correspond to her love. Tripping on the unusual  
alcoholic release of the senses, the ever so righteous and  
straight-to-form captain was only enjoying the feel of her  
female company, propitiously close, just when he needed so  
much someone to listen to him and give him emotional  
support, she concluded bitterly. That was all.  
  
Sorely, struggling against the increasing sensuous  
attraction charging on the air and pulsing between their  
bodies, she began to feel sligthly hurt in her pride. She  
knew that Apollo was never the man to try and take advantage  
of a woman's feelings, but she could sense the lonely  
captain's needs urging for comfort and physical closeness.  
Powered by the ambrosa, they could both end up carried away  
on the tides of lust and delusion that surreal night.  
  
Hesitantly, she came back to herself and broke their hands'  
contact, pulling at the dark-haired warrior, "Ah, so you can  
really see?" she echoed his last words. "Oh, fine. At least,  
it`s an advantage that one of your senses is still working  
fine! We`re soon pulling duty and, possibly, trying to find  
a way to avoid Colonel Tigh and Commander Adama at the same  
time! Apollo, for Platon's sake! Are you sure you're okay?"  
  
"I'm okay, Sheba," he answered sluggishly, now snickering at  
her distressed sense of responsibility. "I guess I really  
needed that break to think and share this much with someone  
else..." he then eyed her beseechingly, suddenly serious.  
"It`s just that, those microns that I was out... I`ve just  
remembered something... something very important," he  
muttered.  
  
Sheba stood up and stared down at him forlornly, as he still  
paid no attention to her disquietude and continued almost  
irksome, "You know... thinking about what I've been  
recollecting, somehow, I have the impression that those  
beings have encoded us information, when we were asleep  
aboard their Merkabah... or their ship... or their temple,  
if you will," he teased. "That's why we suddenly knew the  
coordinates to Earth that night in my Father's quarters.  
That's it!" he added excitedly. "We were encoded  
with information set up to be triggered and remembered at  
the right moment... Otherwise, where in Hades, would all  
those things popping up in my mind, right now, be coming  
from?"  
  
"From that frakking bottle of ambrosa, Apollo!" Sheba  
hissed, feeling slightly edgy, knowing that one of them had  
to get back to their senses and anchor the other down to  
their immediate reality.  
  
"Perhaps. The Dead Sun`s prophets believed that the ritual  
ingestion of ambrosa would expand their disciples` minds  
too, " he continued, irreverently, as Sheba placed her hands  
on her waist and shot him a stern gaze. "Anyway, I`ve just  
remembered, or rather, I've just translated through Maldek's  
views, now, what had happened to me aboard the... the Ship  
of Lights," he shrugged, seemingly, deciding to concede to  
any available labels, "and what had happened before..."  
  
A strong, painful sensation kicked Sheba in the pit of her  
stomack. She didn`t want to remember that, and Apollo,  
carefully perceiving her distress, seemed to change the  
subject. "I  
saw the Gammadion Galaxy too, Sheba," he continued soaring  
on his thoughts, almost nonchalantly. "And I'm positive that  
I've seen flashing sights of Earth too!"  
  
Sheba widened her eyes, looking terrifyed. "You what?" She  
asked, wondering that, contrary to the alcohol, Maldek's  
effects would not evaporate from his system, later.  
  
"There was a moment when those beings shared their visions  
with me, Sheba. That's what I meant when I said that I  
believe that they've encoded us with information.  
I've seen, apparently, random, flashing scenes of distant  
past and the Thriteenth Tribe`s fate, when they got lost in  
the void, parted from The Twelve Tribes` convoy on the  
Exodus from Kobol," he frowned, closing his eyes as if  
trying to see clearer the pictures in his mind. "The  
Thirteenth Tribe was really swallowed up by the void's  
tunnel and traveled all the way through it to The Gammadion'  
s Galaxy... I'm even positive that I caught glimpses of the  
Earth's desert which Maldek talks about on his book."  
  
The captain concentrated again, nervously, knowing that the  
images were there, but, despite his efforts, they still  
remained just out of his conscious mind's reach. He said  
finally, "Sheba, I just know that the lost Thirteenth Tribe  
survived and waits for us on Earth. I know we are meant to  
have a future there, because those beings shared a fragment  
of their knowledge with me... Possibly, they shared it with  
you and Starbuck too!"  
  
Sheba was silently staring down at him, diffidently  
delivering herself to his persuasive reveries again. Apollo  
truly believed every word that he said, and he punctuated  
his speech, gesticulating in a logical manner. He was making  
use of some of his typical reasoning then, she thought. His  
ways of revealing his visions were as practical as his ways  
of coordinating a suicidal strategy to strike down a  
Cylon's baseship, she concluded. In so many ways, the  
inconceivable had always been a logical target for him.  
  
Would she love him so impossibly more if he were any  
different?  
  
Nevertheless, she acknowledged that, deep within her soul,  
there was a strong recognition sense echoing his beliefs and  
agreeing with every and each one of his words. It was just  
as if he were telling her the forgotten lyrics of a familiar  
song.  
  
"It's quite possible that your visions are really true,  
Apollo. Our ancient records agree with what you're saying.  
The lost Thirteenth Tribe would have already begun the  
seeding on Earth then... 'Seed new worlds...' the Beings of  
Light said something about it too, but I don't quite  
remember the words..."  
  
"They did say it, and I know I'm right. Their shared visions  
showed me fast glimpses of ancient space landing sites built  
on Earth's surface. There were incredible monuments and  
buildings there, giant glyphs made on crops and deserts... "  
  
Sheba closed her eyes, too, for a few microns, almost as if  
evoking remembrances of her own. Would she have shared  
visions with those entities too? Or was she just sharing  
Apollo`s?  
  
"Oh! It was such a fast sequence of pictures..." Apollo said  
rubbing his forehead, disturbed. "It was all simultaneous  
and confusing to me, from those being`s synthesized view of  
reality... But I know there are signs everywhere on Earth!  
New Kobol looks like a whole complex data bank registering  
The Thirteen Tribes` genetic memory and their outer space`s  
ancestry in its own celestial body's history!"  
  
"Is New Kobol then waiting for us, Apollo? For what's left  
of us? Are they, too, looking for us now, perhaps?" Sheba  
asked, deeply moved by hope.  
  
Apollo lowered his eyes, uncertain. "Just how aware of their  
past connection with their star brothers they are, I can`t  
tell, Sheba. It`s another shadowy point to me, as I  
couldn't read a clear, assertive confirmation from those  
beings` minds as to how New Kobol responded to our  
existence. I ain`t sure if they remember their ancient  
forefathers from space, now. It was just as if there was a  
big gap of knowledge about it, a void between us."  
  
Seeing Sheba saddening, though, the captain added, "We're  
brothers. Earth and the Fleet are fingers of the same hand,  
too. No matter how much unaware they are of us, they can't  
deny us without denying themselves as well. Truth is truth  
and, knowing it or not, New Kobol's destiny is meant to  
acknowledge it! Earth is right out there, Sheba, waiting for  
us, forever!"  
  
"While forever lasts... The Arrival Day," she said in  
dreaminess, recalling Maldek. Then, she asked softly,  
completely enthralled by his feelings. "Apollo, is Earth  
beautiful?"  
  
"Yes, it is," he sighed deeply. Still behind the cloudy  
veils of his memory, he deeply absorbed the emerging surge  
of impalpable impressions. "New Kobol is beautiful, yeah!"  
He lifted his eyes to meet hers again. Wrapped in her  
sapphire, transparent dress, Sheba was all neon to his eyes.  
"And it's blue..."  
  
Sheba instinctively folded her arms before her breast, aware  
of his intent gaze stroking her form. Her pride was as much  
in place as her love for him. Her mind, like a fulmen of  
metal, hammered logical arguments against the whispers of  
her battered intuition.  
  
There were no plain evidences that Apollo corresponded to  
her feelings. He would never let go of Serena's ghost and  
her morbid place in his haunted life. Suddenly hurt again  
and cold, Sheba walked to the porthole side, and there was  
no submissiveness in her demeanor. She was Cain`s daughter  
and had already gone too far in her need of him.  
  
Apollo immediately stood up, despite the dizziness, and  
followed her close, apparently, resenting when she took cold  
distance. "There's more," he said almost in a desirous tone,  
approaching her as close as possible, still nourishing of  
her physical warmth. That was the trick, Sheba thought  
ironically to herself. If she left his quarters right now,  
in the middle of his ecstatic philosophical climax, she  
wouldn't doubt that he'd follow her like a puppy daggit, all  
over the Galactica.  
  
"More?" She asked almost indifferently, looking across the  
porthole.  
  
"I know what happened after when I challenged Count Iblis on  
that Red Planet. And you have to remember it too!" He said  
pointedly and seriously, trying to break through Sheba`s  
fears about the subject again.  
  
"Oh, no!" Sheba shuddered, squeezing her eyes. She really  
did not want him to have directed the conversation to that  
point. There was a sore spot about Iblis and Apollo`s  
confrontation which she did not want to acknowledge.  
  
But a split micron of memory tightened her throat and stung,  
as she, suddenly, couldn`t help but bridge the missing time.  
It was like the Galactica`s hull fell over her head.  
  
"You were killed by him..." she whispered in a strangled  
tune, shivering at the painful, insurgent image of the dead  
captain`s body, limply sprawled on The Red Planet` sands.  
She recalled Starbuck`s desperate cries beside her,  
announcing the tragedy and snapping her out of her trance  
under Iblis` spell. She recalled the sound of the  
enraged charges from the lieutenent`s lasergun, impotent  
before the dark Count`s insolent smile.  
  
It was a consuming feeling of immeasurable hopelessness,  
total darkness and ultimate fear. Who could fight Death, the  
implacable disintegration and unfathomable silence of all  
organic life? Love could?  
  
"It was my fault," she choked.  
  
Apollo passed his arm around her shoulders once again, and  
tightened his hold on her, quite aware that Sheba's  
innocence could never have been blamed for any course that  
doom dictated. "Not your fault, Sheba. In a way... I was  
already dead. I had died long ago, way back on dead Kobol,  
when Serina died."  
  
Sheba nodded downheartedly, not minding to hold back the  
tears as his declaration hurt almost as intensely as seeing  
him die again. Now he had admitted it. Serina's shades would  
always steal Apollo's life with hers to the gloom of a dead  
sun. "I guess I understand what you're saying, Apollo," she  
stated resignedly.  
  
"No, you don't. How can you, when I myself only begin to  
understand it now?" The captain corrected softly, his voice  
sounding excessively affectionate.  
  
Surprised, Sheba moved under his arm to face him. He had  
tears in his eyes, too. He reached out and picked up Maldek'  
s forgotten book on the balcony, and looked for the page  
into where Serena's flat picture had been discretely slid,  
when Sheba had first found it.  
  
She had noticed, then, how carefully he had returned it to  
the same marked page, and how cautiously they both had  
handled the book, all night long, to keep the flat marker  
from sliding out. He took it out, gazed fondly at it and,  
then, showed it to Sheba. "What do you see?"  
  
"What else is supposed to be seen on it, Apollo?" Sheba  
sounded a little outraged. "I see you and Serena on Kobol!"  
  
"I used to see death and mourning. But no more ..."  
  
Sheba stared at him perplexedly, as he placed the picture  
back into the book, a sad farewell clearly eclipsing his  
traits. "Now, I see Love instead, and I understand that it  
has many faces. Many faces to the same faceless essence,  
Sheba..." he turned around to look across the porthole  
tylinium as he reached out and delivered the closed book to  
her hands.  
  
"Mourn no more, Wounded Bennou!  
Behind remain the ashes of destruction and death, as behind  
had remained dying our ancestors` Kobol and its unlit Sun.  
  
"Resurgence Times shall befall The Race of Man who refused  
to die. Human Spirit can never be killed as it can never  
die! One is The One Who Loves through Many Hearts` Immortal  
Face. So beheld the truth, those whose mortal eyes of  
undying  
love gazed at Deus and saw Eternity`s Many Faces.  
  
"Onward, to the skies of the future! Full speed to New  
Kobol's Dawn! Leo is still The Lord of His Sun-Wheel.  
He is Hand of The Father where all life rides on, and all  
sphinxes on their deserts fearlessly gaze at the Sun  
resurrecting every new day!"  
  
Apollo spoke softly, stealing a gaze at the gracious warrior  
by his side. Sheba looked placid. The prophecy, seemingly,  
had appeased her spirit too.  
  
"Since the first time I read it, I just can't stop thinking  
of the hope in his words... Serina once said to me, back on  
Kobol, that it was comforting to know that there was more to  
life than burnt out stars and ruins. I also told her, just  
before she died, that she made me believe in eternity as I  
couldn't believe that a spirit like hers could end..." he  
trailed off, deep in thought. His eyes were two liquid  
emeralds burning in mystical fervor.  
Sheba`s heart skipped a beat.  
  
"The Prophet's Tongue, Sheba, sounds like all familiar  
voices of Truth and Good that I hold dear in my life..."  
  
He stared off into the distance of space again, as Maldek  
spoke through his mouth. Apollo knew the prophet`s book like  
the palm of his hand, Sheba thought, listening to him  
silently. Serina's picture was marking that page, and the  
vaticination meant hope in the future after death and  
mourning. It had a special meaning for Sheba, too.  
  
"In the middle of the endless night of lonely quest, prepare  
for celebration amidst the wars. Communion in Space.  
The ambrosa shall overflow in the chalice.  
The Messenger shall arrive for Renewed Covenant.  
  
"In the Name of Her Father, She shall hail.  
He, who drives His Own Chariot, rules over His Own Sun-Wheel  
and is there the only power that there is.  
He, The Living Myth Helios, whose Solar Hand is nether The  
Leo`s and also halts the Draco, He has winged sphinxes for  
His Own too.  
  
"Behold New Kobol stealing Helio`s Fire and raising Her  
Armies against the Enemy of Man. Behold New Kobol`s Eyes  
spying the space. Pour more ambrosa into the chalice! The  
Silver Bride shall descend from Heavens."  
  
"The Silver Bride?" Sheba asked confused. "Helios? What does  
he mean by all that?"  
  
"Actually, I have no idea, Sheba. I don't know if I could  
quite correlate it to anything that ever happened in the  
past... Prophecies are easier to interpret after when they  
have already happened, but the words could have been applied  
to many little things..."  
  
Apollo smiled. "Helios is the apocrypha`s name for Earth's  
Sun. Maldek could be meaning a sign from Earth... perhaps,  
the signs we`ve picked up at the Celestial Dome... I don't  
know. Yet, no matter what it really means collectively, it  
has a special meaning to me, in particular, anyway."  
  
Apollo stopped meditatively, without ever deviating his eyes  
from the starfield outside. For a few microns, Sheba  
remained static, sharing non-verbal communion. There might  
be more to life than dead stars and ruins. Serina was right  
about it, she pondered. Then, curiously again, Sheba frowned  
and looked for the marked page in the book. She skimmed  
through a few of the many rough illustrations on the page  
which she could not understand.  
  
A couple of humans, the number 2, Earth as the ninth  
planet, forteen hearts surrounding the Gammadion Cross...  
It made no sense to Sheba`s mind. Her attention was drawn,  
though, to the sketch representing two hearts melting  
together into a sun. She continued reading the text bellow  
them, in a low voice:  
  
"Behold My Arrival, spelling Celestial Revelations in The  
Prophet`s Tongue! I am The Forerunner, I am the Messenger  
and I bear the sign of Leo`s Breath of Light with me. I  
come to spark fire in the shadows, all the way between New  
Kobol`s present and Old Kobol`s past.  
  
"My Winged Helmet bears My Father and Mother`s Winged  
Emblem. My Golden Womb speaks of Helios` Breath of Fire,  
whose winds blow tempests of Life all the milky way from New  
Kobol`s Heavens to plutonic rocks in Hades..."  
  
Sheba stopped a little, frowning again and shaking her head.  
Was she still too drunk or did that prophecy sound weird to  
her ears?  
  
"I hail in sign of Universal Good Will, because all endings  
must have a good start. The snake swallows its own tail, the  
extremes touch: In collision course, Leo devoured the  
Draco`s void and threw it up from His Guts. Breath of Light  
on the heat, Breath of Fire is born. The void is now  
pregnant of suns..."  
  
Sheba trailed off, sensing a logic behind the text,  
describing thermodynamic laws, but she just could not figure  
out the Prophet`s Tongue.  
  
"See me dancing before you, see how beautiful I am! Cover me  
with Your Wings, Holy Bennou. Take me as your Bride and I  
shall make a miracle for you..."  
  
Sheba hesitated again, slightly embarrassed. But Apollo, now  
frowning pensively, held her fleeting gaze on to his,  
encouraging her to go on and finish it. She continued shyly:  
  
"Cover me with Your Wings and behold Leo`s Quintessence of  
Ether aroused. I am My Mighty Father Helios` Very Own  
Daughter, I have the power to halt the Draco and revert The  
Gammadion`s deadly spin. I shall save you from the void and  
rise you from the ashes of Death. I am The Silver Bride sent  
for covenant and I will show you the way home to the New  
Sun..."  
  
Sheba lifted an eyebrow, almost as if about to object to an  
idea that came to mind. Apollo's traits were a mix of  
surprise and wondering amusement. "What's..." She  
vacillated, gasping.  
  
Apollo was muttering something and choking the laugh  
uncomfortably. Then, he just looked down to the floor, for a  
few microns, shaking his head. When he looked up to her  
again, his face expression was still a little amused, but  
his intent stare, now, revealed a quality of emotion that  
Sheba had only seen there when he talked of Serina.  
  
The quintessence of Love.  
She had never seen his eyes so wide open like that.  
  
"So beheld the future, The Prophet of the Dead Sun?" He  
asked, no hint of amusement in his eyes now.  
  
"What do you mean by that?" Sheba pleaded, visibly stirred  
up.  
  
"You've offered your own life in trade for mine aboard the  
Ship of Lights..." the captain said in a hoarse voice,  
cupping her face with his hand, deep commotion stirring his  
traits too.  
  
"I did," Sheba answered, making her voice sound firmly. "And  
I'd do it again."  
  
He could only stare, absorbing the extraordinary power of  
that avowal. Sheba tilted back her head, proudly, under his  
investigative gaze, sustaining her silent resolution. Her  
face, like a temple turned to the East. 'Decipher me or I  
shall devour you', a sphinx gazing at the Rising Sun.  
  
Beat by beat, Apollo felt his heart simmering and throbbing  
in his breast, acutely sensitive to the soundless  
communication passing through, like pulsing electromagnetic  
waves building static on the ether.  
  
He stroked down her long hair, holding a full dark golden  
brown lock of silk in his hand. Deeply within his soul, the  
heat was languidly burning out, reaching every sensitive  
nerve under his skin.  
Sheba's blue dress and her fair flesh glowed with a strange  
luminescence to his drunken eyes as the force of their  
attraction, like a powerful, rhythmic magnet, drew his body  
to hers, overcoming any resistances.  
  
He tenderly leaned in, watching the astonished consent in  
her wet eyes, and approached his lips to brush hers with a  
feather touch.  
  
She gasped. And her warm, moist breath streamed through his  
nostrils and mouth, blowing like a hot wind throughout his  
body. Every muscle, nerve fiber and cell seemed like  
charging with  
wondrous hurtful delight. His heart pounded fervid blood  
into the veins as Revelation struck.  
  
It was like he had been blasted again by a potent beam of  
solid light. A benign blast of light. Hallowed...  
  
He felt like falling, spinning and collapsing into his own  
center, melting alive in thermonuclear fire. Flaring all  
along his spine and around it, like an incandescent coiled  
serpent, heat was meandering up, bathing all of his vital  
centers with its liquid fervidness.  
  
The floor seemed to fail under his feet and he leaned onto  
her, resting his ardent forehead on the hollow of her neck,  
breathing in her intoxicating essence and allowing the hot  
tears to stream down his face. His love for her, so  
cautiously and deeply shielded in the dark chambers of his  
soul, hidden even from himself, now bursting out of its  
confines and claiming its right to live. Arising.  
  
Surrendering, at last, to the overwhelming emotions, Sheba  
dropped Maldek's book down to the floor and snuggled him  
close, passing her fingers through the captain's dark, thick  
hair and kissing it softly. She cried too, rocking him  
slowly and hushing him tenderly. He nurtured hungrily on the  
feel of her female caresses and pulled her even closer,  
holding her fresh body tightly against him.  
  
Sheba felt deliriously benumbed within his embrace.  
Electric current shocks ran rhythmically through their  
clasped bodies, as they felt the power of all organic forces  
of Creation within ascending for Light and charging, in  
collision course, for the bursting clash.  
  
Panting, She managed to pull off a little and still stare  
questioningly at him. His eyes had the pupils as dilated as  
hers, and answered the riddle she yearned to know. They  
spoke to her in the Prophet`s Tongue. She failed on her  
feet, weak in his arms, and they sank down to the couch.  
  
He looked down at her, reveling again in the blazing  
radiance she seemed to emanate from her flesh.  
Radioactive, The One Who Sees through Many Eyes was  
looking at him right through her face.  
  
The Sphinx. She was all females of the world and none of  
them at the same time. The Messenger, The Silver Bride sent  
for Covenant, The Bearer of Light sparking fire in the  
shadows of dead stars and wars. More than anything, she was  
his Breath of Life and his salvation from the void.  
  
For her, his surrender tasted mellifluously, like unruffled  
deep lakes. But it had the salty spice of the turbulent  
green oceans too. His loving was both the bitter  
belligerence of wars and the mild amnesty of tranquil truce.  
  
For him, her deliverance was like the flowing nectar of  
unknown celestial realms, foreign virgin regions still to be  
explored by man. It savored like an undistinguishable, but  
familiar liquor. It tasted like home.  
  
Apollo`s quarters were now a surreal shade of fulgent,  
consuming white light spinning around their heads, revolving  
around the igneous center of their blended souls.  
In the boiling nucleus of that swirling spiral licking out  
its  
flames, their bodies were melted into a fluid stream of  
fire.  
  
They were safe in The Center of Everything.  
In that mysterious nexus point above time and space where  
suns eat voids and all extremes in Creation touch.  
Safely vulnerable...  
  
Fear what? Leos never fear.  
  
The endless night was over. From the top of his Sun-Wheel,  
light-yahrens away in the Heart of The Gammadion Cross, Leo  
roared at the Draco`s cave as the Sphinx on New Kobol's  
desert placidly faced the rising of Her Helios Sun. Holding  
Sheba, divinely asleep in his arms, Apollo closed his eyes,  
sighing deeply.  
  
He felt serene.  
  
It was like he had just come back from the cold distant land  
of the living dead. Like he had just been saved. Breaking  
through all resistance shields of armored armies, the  
galactican warrior felt like one of Maldek's Winged Serpents  
triumphing over the Armageddon.  
  
He kissed Sheba's heated face softly, and his heart pounded  
mightly against his chest.  
  
A miracle.  
  
Solar Flood of Resurrection.  
The Arrival Day.  
Holy Breath of Fire of the Second Coming.  
He felt like he had landed on Earth.  
  



	6. Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX   
  
  
Sometimes the dreams were so peaceful, so calming, visions of times never really shared, reflections of future hopes that could never be fulfilled. A quiet day on the shores of the Belisan Bay, just outside Caprica City. Walking slowly through the cool, soft sand that seeped between the toes and tickled the tops of the feet with each step. The quiet roar as the waves surged forward to embrace the earth, then pulled back to nestle in the sea, before reaching out once again. The salty, fresh smells of the water mingled with the rich, earthy fragrances from the land. Looking out across the turquoise and grey waters, the light of the setting sun painted splashes of warm, rich colors over both the sea and the sky, creating an infinite illusion. The deepening, darkening hues of the sky and the sea flowing together without bounds, sealed by the infusion of the sun's brilliant but fading colors. The cool, caressing breeze brushed his face as he walked.   
  
Beside him, his sister, laughing with that deep, quiet chuckle as they both watched the children play, loudly, splashing, oblivious to the beauty around them, but so utterly happy in their games. So peaceful, so, happy, so oblivious. Oblivion a breath away . . .  
  
When Lieutenant Boomer awoke, he could still hear the laughter and still see their content faces as he kept his eyes closed, savoring the sensations. They lived. They lived on for him, timeless, ageless, in his dreams. Here, the sun never completed its descent into the black, suffocating Hades that had consumed all humanity nearly a yahren ago, after the Destruction. The dreams were his escape, his tenuous anchor to sanity, the only real peace to be found now.  
Gradually, though, the images faded into the actuality of the stale smell of recycled air, the artificial stillness, broken by the rustling of sheets, the grunts, the groans, the harsh breathing from the twenty other warriors that shared this small space. The regret, the fierce longing to change the past, was fleeting, however. Over time, he had learned to deal with the reality that their lives, those of his sister and her children -- and all of his family -- had abruptly ended during the Destruction. He had learned to open himself to the sensations of anger, despair, and helplessness. To experience them, give in to them; then, and only then, was he able to accept the past and its destiny, and pull himself back to look to the future. And in the present, Blue Squadron was his family.   
  
Eventually, the burning hatred, the desire to *hurt* the enemy, had subsided into the resolute determination that he and the others, crowded aboard those 220 ships, the survivors of a once great and rich civilization, would endure. And flourish again. Sometimes, the cold, hard anger at the Cylons reemerged, but instead of blind hatred, it fueled his undying belief - no, defiant promise! - that his people would one day settle and rebuild, stronger and wiser because of the unspeakable tragedies they had endured. Maybe not tomorrow, but one day, one yahren, maybe not even in his lifetime . . . but damned if he was going to allow the Cylons any more victories by giving up or giving in to the grief.   
  
So, Lieutenant Boomer faced each new day with a feeling of calm, quiet acceptance, interlaced with bitter determination. And the promise that he would do all that he could to help his people survive and to elude the Cylons. Had they already, he wondered? Had they finally evaded their pursuers? And had the destruction of that basestar, a sectar ago, been a defiant, final farewell to their enemy, as Apollo and Starbuck had blatantly and boldly walked into the basestar's heart and disabled their sensors? Right under their Cylon noses, Boomer laughed to himself.   
  
Oh, the burning desire to have been a part of that! To have felt firsthand the sweet revenge of proving that the human spirit was wittier and more cunning than the cold machine logic and stale, predictable tactics of the Cylons. Still, the feeling that welled from within as he and the other pilots had watched the basestar explode was akin to pure joy, pure relief. Release.   
  
Only the uncertainty of his two friends' fates had tempered that moment, Boomer remembered: a twinge of fear and anxiety that had grown into a dreaded foreboding amidst the exaltation, after the battle, as fighter after Cylon fighter had approached the Galactica on suicide runs -- last, desperate attempts to inflict as much damage as they could on the battlestar. He had stood vigil at the scanner, along with Commander Adama, Tigh, Sheba, and Cassie, watching for the red dot that would have marked an incoming Cylon fighter as belonging to Starbuck and Apollo. Boomer, himself, had constructed the device that would generate the identifying signal.   
  
"Don't lose that transmitter," He had admonished Apollo and Starbuck before the mission, "or we'll have no way of telling you from the Cylons."  
  
"If we do, we'll just waggle our wings!" Starbuck had responded, jokingly.  
  
No, the victory could not possibly have cost them his two, dear friends, Boomer had thought, prayed, as the last, lone fighter had approached. No red dot showed on the scanner. But something had caught Boomer eye as the monitor tracked the ship to within the Galactica's firing range. It's wings were moving up and down . . .   
  
Just as Adama was about to order the fighter destroyed, Boomer had felt first relief, then shear joy, explode within as he realized the fighter was waggling. Waggling to signal its identify. Apollo and Starbuck. At that precise moment, as he gleefully yelled for the commander to stop, to not order the gunner to fire, he just knew that the victory was complete. And his two friends were coming home.   
  
Boomer pulled his mind back to the present moment. Opening his eyes, finally, as he lay in his bunk and, glancing around, Boomer could just barely discern the grey forms of the other pilots, still sleeping, in the darkened billet. One bunk, however, to his right and below, was empty. He sighed, a deep sigh, as he wondered, again, what could have transformed his optimistic, carefree friend into his current brooding, troubled self. Now, when the future finally seemed to show some promise, some hope, that the Cylons were left behind, that they were poised to break free of the ashes and find a new beginning.  
  
Everyone hoped and prayed that they had seen the last of the Cylons, but what of the other forces out there? Every once in a while, he felt haunted by the memories of their encounter with Count Iblis. The Fleet had come perilously close to giving itself over to that unknown being. Evil being. He had no doubts about that.   
  
Not only had he listened to Apollo, Sheba, and Starbuck's muddled and strange explanation of their confrontation with Iblis - where Iblis had revealed his true nature and Apollo had been struck down protecting Sheba - but he could vividly recall, now, the power that Iblis had wielded over him, during the triad game. He just knew, because the game itself was as hazy as a dream, a nightmare. Unreal. He could watch the replays of the game, see the intensity and ferocity on his own face, yet have little recollection of the details of that moment.   
He remembered staring into the Count's eyes before the match had started, at the precise moment that he had felt a longing to defeat Apollo and Starbuck. That feeling had suddenly and uncontrollably swelled into a burning, cold, mechanical, all-encompassing drive to win at any cost. Then, all other memories after that point were surreal and hazy. It was as though Iblis' stare had penetrated deep within his soul to blow life into the darkest and most barbaric parts of him. That image in the replays was Boomer, but not. That convoluted, eerie period of time, two whole centars, was a powerful reminder for him of Iblis' evil potential.  
  
Similar feelings of an absence of memory and a lack of control over events also haunted his soul as he tried to remember another incident: what had happened after launching to intercept those white lights that had appeared after the triad game celebration, after drinking too much - something he rarely did. The white lights had been watching the Fleet closely since Iblis had appeared, and he vaguely remembered trying to fire at them as they flew all around him.   
Perhaps it was the effects of too much alcohol that clouded and obscured in his mind what had really happened to him. All he could remember next was a high pitch echoing in his brain and the blinding white light surrounding him. His next memory was of waking up, safe, on the red planet, and finding all the other missing pilots. Inexplicable malfunctions in all of the vipers? Apollo, Sheba, and Starbuck had assured him that the white lights were benevolent, that they had been fighting Iblis, as well. But Boomer had not come to terms with these incidents. Not yet.   
  
The most troubling, the most terrifying, aspect was knowing that Iblis, whoever or whatever he was, had controlled and manipulated them so easily. Only Apollo had not been deceived by the mysterious Count and had been able, somehow - how? - to free Sheba and defeat Iblis. And only because of his loyalty and unshakeable faith in his friend had Starbuck been there to back up Apollo.   
Boomer wondered if he would ever know or understand what had really happened during that strange time period, from when Iblis appeared to when he had vanished, after Apollo, Sheba, and Starbuck had returned in the shuttle to the Galactica from the red planet. How had Iblis truly been defeated and what other forces were involved in all of this? And where did those strange white lights fit into this? His inability to rationalize these events haunted him whenever he thought of them.  
  
He shook his head and turned his thoughts to the day that lay ahead. No patrols today. A mandatory briefing with the commander, then the midday triad demonstrations on the Orphan Ship. Although he and Greenbean would make their entrance as the reigning men's champions, Boomer found the title meant less to him than he had imagined. It was nice, that was all, and he held no negative feelings about the spoiled celebration, either.   
  
Rather than bask in the glory, he was more eager to interact with the children, to see the light in their eyes as they reveled in the moment, the way only children can do, sometimes, in complete happiness. He had seen it before on the other occasions that he and some of the pilots had visited the orphans and had let them explore the cockpits of their vipers as they asked endless questions in awe. He had seen the happiness in the faces of those children, some bearing the awful physical reminders and others only the unseen mental scars. He could see in their faces the reflection of his sister's children, of all children he had ever loved, and of all who had perished.   
  
Whenever his schedule permitted, Boomer would round up whatever pilots were free and spend a few centars with the children. And usually, if available, Starbuck would come along, too, and would act as carefree and playful - and as mischievous -- as the orphans they had come to entertain.  
  
Boomer sat up and rubbed his hands over his face, knowing that sleep would be impossible now. The chronometer read 0525. Others would be stirring soon, and another day would begin, another day of life within the cold, metal confines that now passed for home. The lieutenant tossed his covers aside. With luck, he would have at least fifteen centons of peaceful silence, before the morning alarms roused the others and the quarters were filled once more with the almost ever-constant din of twenty men living in such tight quarters.  
  
Sitting for a moment on the edge of his bunk, Boomer inhaled very slowly, deeply, feeling the breath expand in his chest and along with it, a feeling of calmness as he pushed all of these thoughts back to where they belonged. The past was the past, unchangeable, and the future was a set of infinite, indefinable possibilities. It did no good to dwell on either. Only today mattered. It was time to move on and start the day.   
  
After several more deep, relaxing breaths, Boomer quietly slid out of his bed and pulled out his uniform, dressing quickly but silently. He had just pulled his belt through its last loop, when he heard the squadron door open. He looked up to see, without surprise, Starbuck crossing the threshold. He was about to jokingly question his friend about the late, or rather, early, centar of his return, but he did not have the chance. Starbuck moved briskly and steadily towards the turbowash, his gaze locked straight ahead, his movements precluding any attempt at conversation.   
  
Boomer decided to let him go, since he had precious few moments of quiet left before the others awoke. And how he treasured these brief periods of solitude. They were relaxing but all too infrequent. Besides, he had a matter to attend to before the rush of the day carried him on. A message to answer.  
Over the past yahren, the few modifications that were possible, given the severe limit of resources, had been implemented to make life a bit more bearable within the Fleet. One change had been giving everyone access to computer terminals for intership communications. The current system was a far cry from the technology and freedom they had been accustomed to on their homeworlds, but it was all they could afford under such survival conditions. Every ship had at least one terminal open to all citizens. Within the Galactica, each squadron had been given a terminal for communications.   
  
Control was not unlimited, though. To avoid having a buzz of transmissions among the ships that would have been like standing on a hill and waving a flag at their enemies, messages were saved and sent at two specific times each day in short, coded bursts. These times had become highlights of the day for those who had friends or family on other ships. Only on special, rare occasions, such as the previous evening's triad game, were live and continuos broadcasts permitted. Even though they were transmitted through very narrow, short-range emissions, the risk of detection was always a possibility.  
  
The morning transmission time was twenty centons away, and Boomer wanted to be sure to not miss it. Moving quickly to the back of the billet, near the lockers and turbowash, Boomer pulled out the stool and was mentally preparing his message as he sat down in front of the terminal. The simple display on the screen listed each pilot's name. Arrow keys moved the cursor up and down to select one's name, and a password had to be entered before access was granted. To save time, given twenty men and one computer, anyone who had unread messages from the previous transmission had an asterisk next to their name.  
  
As Boomer prepared to type his password, he scanned the other names, out of curiosity, mainly, to see who had not had time to check their messages. Usually, only long-range patrols or unforeseen duties kept the pilots from reading their mail; they had so few other luxuries. Only one name was marked with an asterisk, this time, but it caught Boomer's attention. Starbuck. With no family and all of his close friends aboard the Galactica, Starbuck almost never bothered to check the terminal because he almost never received messages.  
  
Time was short now, so Boomer focused back on his own message. Typing in his password brought up his personal message files, including the most recently received transmission, a short but enjoyable note from a new friend, Ezekial. Ezekial was a boy who was about the age his nephew would have been, 11 yahrens. He had so many mannerisms that reminded Boomer of his sister's son, that it had been impossible to not be drawn to this witty, cheerful boy. Ezekial lived on the Orphan Ship. After visiting with him and the other children several times, Boomer had encouraged him to write to him in between visits. Thus, the two had connected and forged a friendship. Where this bond would lead, Boomer was not sure. For now, at least, he wanted to be Ezekial's mentor and someone to whom he could reach out.   
  
Lights flipped on. Voices interrupted the silence. The others were waking up. Boomer typed his short note quickly, telling Ezekial that he would look for him after the triad clinic, that he would treat him to dinner, since his schedule was open today.   
  
The lieutenant was just finishing up, sending his message to be stored until the appointed transmission time, when Starbuck, freshly showered, the previous day's uniform draped across an arm, exited the turbowash. Boomer gave his friend a close, critical look this time as he reemerged into the awakening fraternity of viper pilots. Giles was the first to crack a joke about Starbuck's choice of sleeping quarters. Starbuck flashed a grin and played along with the teasing, encouraging it, even. Boomer, however, saw the dark shadows under his friend's blue eyes and knew that he was just building a smoke screen to cover whatever had really happened in the centars after he had walked away from Apollo, Cassie, Sheba, and him. He also noticed that Starbuck had avoided looking in his direction while he dressed and traded jests with the other pilots.  
  
"Hey, Bucko!" Boomer called.  
  
Starbuck paused, looked over at Boomer, grin still frozen in place, but said nothing.  
  
"You got a message last night. Thought you might want to read it before the next transmissions come in." Boomer knew who it would be from, because Starbuck only had one connection outside of the Galactica - Chameleon. Maybe a few words from this crafty con man, who was so much like Starbuck, would help to lift the lieutenant's spirits.  
  
For about a day, several sectars ago, it had actually looked like Chameleon could be Starbuck's father, Boomer remembered. For a brief moment, the lieutenant had known what it was like to have a blood-related family. However, events had revealed that Chameleon had used their shared link to Umbra and the Thorn Forest on Caprica as a cover to escape from some Borelian Nomen that he had deceived. Chameleon had used Starbuck to get off the Rising Star and to find protection. The bond, however, that the two had forged, seeded by their uncanny similarities and the proven fact that they were, at least, related within ten generations, had survived Chameleon's confession. They had continued to visit one another, from time to time, since then.  
  
"Yeah?" Starbuck's eyes widened and his smiled softened in genuine surprise and delight. His reaction was so much like the orphans' when he and the other pilots brought small treats with them, Boomer reflected. Open, honest happiness, with all other concerns temporarily forgotten.  
  
Boomer gave Starbuck a friendly smile and a playful jab on the shoulder as he moved over, giving him what little privacy he could. Best to just forget about the past evening, thought Boomer, and to keep the mood light. He was quite aware, though, that it would not be that simple with Apollo. Although he had not heard their argument, Boomer knew that the two close friends had exchanged some harsh words. Starbuck would have to face Apollo, at the very least, when the triad clinic began after the midday meal. Whether those two would have time to resolve the issue was another matter. They would all be busy with the children and the demonstrations. Starbuck would suit out, at least, but he could not yet play. In addition, Boomer knew that Starbuck would have to make his public apology for fighting with that reporter; the captain had briefly explained the lieutenant's consequences last night, after Starbuck had walked off and left the group standing outside the commander's office. Nope, reflected Boomer, not an easy afternoon for his friend.   
  
As Starbuck relinquished the computer terminal to the crowd of warriors now awaiting the morning's transmissions, Boomer asked, "So what's Chameleon up to?"  
  
The smile was still genuine. "He wants to meet at the Rising Star. He knows I've only got a day or two left on leave, and he thinks we should get together and make the most of it. Sounds like a plan to me!"   
  
"I see," Boomer teased, "so the two of you can see who loses the most cubits?"  
  
Starbuck grabbed a towel that had been left on a bunk and threw it at Boomer. Boomer dodged it easily, but said no more. Instead, he hoped that his friend's light mood could survive the rest of the day. And perhaps a night out, away from everyone else, was what the lieutenant needed.  
  
************  
Starbuck and Boomer, along with several other pilots, slipped quietly into the back of the throng of warriors gathered for the mandatory briefing. The commander had called the meeting in the main conference hall, which was two rooms, really. The warriors stood at the back of the audience chamber that opened into the raised meeting area. The separating partition at the front had been drawn to reveal a navigational display and the large council table, which was set against the backdrop of stars that shown faintly through the observation port.   
  
Boomer and Starbuck were actually several centons late, but found, to their relief, that the proceedings had not yet started. Even Starbuck was usually on time, when it came to meetings with the commander, but the lieutenant had fallen asleep earlier and Boomer had let him rest, waking him at the last possible moment. All he remembered was sitting down on his bunk to wait while Boomer used the turbowash, before heading out for the morning meal. Moments later, it had seemed, but actually over two centars later, Boomer had been shaking him out of a deep, dreamless sleep.   
  
The only true sleep he had had that long night, because after he and Cassie had gone to bed, around 0130, the nightmare had invaded his sleep all too soon, allowing him no reprieve following the disaster of an evening. Cassie had awaken, also, to find him gasping and obviously shaken. She had tried her best to calm him, but the nightmare had shaken him to his core, even though he could not remember any of the images. But they were there, just below the surface of his conscious memory, leaving him with a horrible feeling and a driving desire to stay awake. So he had pretended to relax and fall asleep as Cassie had cuddled close. He had concentrated on her soft warmth, the sweet smell of her hair against his face, the smooth, comforting feel of her arm across his chest. Eventually, she had drifted back to sleep, peacefully, but Starbuck had continued to stare into the darkness, using her closeness as a shield from any further dreams. And he had let her alarm, set for 0500, seemingly awaken them both. Thus, he had returned to the billet, once again, with very little sleep and the nagging, lingering aftereffects of a nightmare.   
  
Now, as he scanned the faces of the other warriors, taking vague note of who he saw, his stomach was also growling and rumbling at him, letting him know that his last meal had been some time ago. Before the triad game, the previous evening, he reflected, which felt as if it had been a secton ago, since that meal had been emergency rations and had been unsatisfying, at best. When Starbuck had found out that Boomer had let him sleep through the morning meal, Starbuck had complained loudly. Boomer, however, had narrowed his eyes, stared at him knowingly and had flatly told him that he needed the sleep more than the food. Although Starbuck had continued to protested, he knew his friend was right; those two centars had been his first solid sleep in a long while, and Boomer knew that. How could he not know, given the close quarters of their billet?   
  
Even when Starbuck had chosen to ignore curfew regulations and spend some of the nights with Cassie, Boomer was perceptive enough to know why he came back still looking so tired. And it was not due to any amorous interactions, as Starbuck would have the other warriors believe. The others were so quick to accept his insinuated stories of long, passionate centars spent with Cassiopeia. Starbuck had to laugh to himself. His reputation as a "ladies man" was legendary, and he had actively worked to keep it inflated beyond reality, at least among his fellow pilots. Thus, when it had finally become apparent that he was seeing only one woman, he had had to dodge a barrage of jokes about it. To keep his reputation intact, he had carefully planted the idea that nights spent with Cassie were filled with far more adventure than one could ever find with someone else. Although she had the reputation of a skilled medtech, her former occupation of socialator was common knowledge, too. Starbuck was careful to describe her in nothing but the most respectful terms, but, with a twinge of guilt, he had also let himself use and manipulate the others' knowledge. With just the right implications, he had not had to actually say anything, but had let the others create the wild adventures for him, while he just grinned and nodded mischievously.  
  
Boomer, however, was not fooled. He would listen to the tall tales but not participate. Instead, he would throw Starbuck an ironic, disapproving stare that stated plainer than words that he knew the truth; he knew that the fabrications were a comfortable shield, and that the nightmares continued.   
Yeah, Boomer knew . . . and so did Apollo, Starbuck reflected, letting his own thoughts float briefly and hesitantly beyond the wall that he had deliberately built, stone by stone, over the many yahrens. He was fully aware that he was hiding, even from himself. But to let himself look inward, past that wall, was like standing on the edge of a deep chasm as the wind blew against his back; the overwhelming fear of falling made him withdraw and cling to safety. 'Oh, God,' he let himself think, 'Apollo, Boomer, Cassie . . .they're right. I'm too afraid to find out what's causing these nightmares. Too afraid of what I'll find . . . I can't let this go on. Not after last night.' He could still hear the awful, hurtful words that he had said to Apollo ringing in his mind.  
  
Abruptly, Starbuck's mind snapped back to the conference hall and the faces his eyes had been absently scanning. Apollo. Where was Apollo? With keen attention now, he stared, taking note of everyone he saw as his gaze swept across the standing warriors. He let his gaze sweep from the faces beside and behind him on his left, to the backs of heads in front of him and on to those off to his right. He recognized many familiar faces, including several of the bridge officers. Athena stood up front with Omega next to her. But the captain, who was always punctual, never late, was not present.  
  
The murmur of voices hushed as the commander and Colonel Tigh entered through the conference room, emerging from behind the drawn partition. At that same moment, Starbuck swung around instinctively at the sound of movement and rustling behind him, near the rear entrance to the audience chamber, off to his left. It was Apollo. Although the captain was a couple of metrons back and was partially obscured by the handful of warriors that stood between them, Starbuck instantly noticed a subtle difference to his appearance and demeanor. An unkempt look to his hair and that glazed aura about his face. Although Apollo seemed in control, Starbuck recognized the slight furrowing of the brow denoting the extra little bit of effort required to concentrate as the captain focused on his father's opening statements. By the Lords, Starbuck gaped to himself, he's been drinking?!  
  
A sharp jab in the ribs from Boomer's elbow, followed by a brief but painful cramp in his twisted back muscles, broke his concentration and reminded him that staring to the back of the room would not go over well with the commander or Colonel Tigh. Turning slowly to face front, the lieutenant still did not hear the commander's words or even feel the fading spasm. Instead, his mind was clinging to and analyzing the image he had just seen. Apollo had looked flustered and rushed, out of breath from hurrying. The captain's eyes, as he had briefly glanced around and had nodded, ever so slightly, to his friend, however, had not reflected concern or anger, but something else. Something that Starbuck had not seen in Apollo's eyes since before the Destruction and briefly afterwards. Happiness. A deep, pervasive contentment. Starbuck was sure of it. But why? And how?   
  
It was not at all what he had expected, especially after the events of the past evening. Starbuck felt puzzled, almost bewildered. He knew that his own behavior had been inexcusably rude and hurtful. Apollo should have been - had every right to be - quite upset with him, still. Yet, in the milimicron that their eyes had locked, before the captain had looked away, almost as if embarrassed, Apollo's gaze had conveyed something much different. He was not sure what, but it was nothing near what he had expected. It left him feeling unnerved.  
  
Boomer was jabbing him in the ribs again. "Bucko, you ought to at least *look* like you're paying attention!" he whispered at him, while keeping his gaze straight ahead.  
  
"Of course! I'm hanging on every word," Starbuck whispered back. Although facing forward, he had been staring at the floor this time, he realized, so he looked up and forced his mind to tune in to the commander's voice.   
  
" . . . changing role. I won't describe the incidents of the past several sectons, since we are all well aware of what has happened," Adama was saying, his voice echoing through the large chamber.   
  
Although he was pacing slowly but purposefully back and forth just at the edge of the steps that descended into the audience chamber, Adama was staring steadily in the lieutenant's direction as he spoke those words, and Starbuck looked up to lock gazes with his commander, briefly, before Adama finally let his eyes return to sweeping the faces of his warriors. The jolt of that momentary, yet penetrating, contact riveted Starbuck's attention. So he also noticed when the commander's gaze paused in Apollo's direction, and the briefest of frowns, then the faintest of smiles, played across his face for a fleeting micron. Only Starbuck and, surely, Apollo would have noticed the almost imperceptible changes.  
  
Still pacing slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, the commander continued, "Your Oath as a warrior is to protect the people of the Fleet from all threats and to ensure their safety. Yet, keeping the last of humankind safe from its enemies will demand more than just flying patrols and scouting resources and fighting the Cylons." As he paused, the silence indicated that he had everyone's attention. He glanced briefly at Tigh, who stood to the left beside the partition, two steps down from the conference room, with his hands also clasped behind his back, his eyes taking in everything.  
  
"We are faced with a more immediate threat now, I fear - ourselves. If we are to succeed in our duty as protectors, that role must expand to include fighting human weakness, too, ensuring a safe and nurturing harbor for all those souls who have entrusted themselves under our protection, and defending the spirit of the human race against its very own mortal enemy . . . hopelessness."  
  
Adama's voice, so strong and captivating, was the only sound, now, in the conference chamber. He continued. "All of you, as warriors, can understand that it is much too soon to know if we have escaped the Cylon threat, but the people of the Fleet don't have the discipline to be patient provided to us by our military training and experience. They are *tired.* Some are losing faith and hope. Some are getting desperate, even. They want a better life, and they may not have the will to wait much longer." The impact of Adama's last statements hung in the air almost tangibly as he paused again and scanned the faces in front of him. His words were serious, and his expression was one of candid determination. "As time passes, we will face more volatile situations, not fewer."   
  
Adama stopped pacing to face the warriors and hold his arms out for emphasis. "So we - as Colonial warriors - must understand that preventive and positive measures are needed to combat the rising feelings of restlessness, hopelessness, and even desperation. We must encourage unity and hope. And faith. And we must reach out to all people of this Fleet. That is why the triad demonstrations, later today, at the Orphan Ship are so important. And that is why my next proposal needs to be considered very seriously by each and every one of you."  
  
Adama paused to let his gaze sweep across the faces of his warriors, yet again, and to let the ensuing silence add weight to his next words. "The children of the Fleet are our only bridge to the future. Need I tell you that without them, the human race will stagnate and die? Yet, hundreds must call the Orphan Ship their home. They live without the love, guidance, or support of any adult, save their determined but overworked guardians, who each give all that they can to the 30 or 40 children under their care . . . Each and every one of those children is a vital link in the bridge to our future. Each and every one of them needs a special person who can be a guide to them, a source of support, an anchor against losing hope. Each child needs to know that he or she is not just a face in the crowd and a just another mouth to be feed.  
  
"Thus, in an effort to preserve our future we are establishing a mentor program for the children of the Orphan Ship. We are going to encourage every person in this Fleet who is able to - to reach out and help one of these orphans. Before I present this to the general population, though, my hope is to build a beginning foundation for this program from within our own ranks, from among the Colonial Warriors, who are the protectors of this Fleet. I do realize that this is no easy task, because being a mentor would require a true commitment and would be a long-term responsibility. If you choose to do this, you must be willing to give a part of your very being to supporting and guiding this child."   
  
"And this challenge will not be for everyone." The commander paused, and his gaze seemed to seek out a couple of specific faces, Athena in the front, Apollo in the back. His voice was much softer when he continued. "As a parent, I understand that. . ." The commander seemed to reflect for a brief micron, his eyes flickering almost imperceptibly as he returned to a determined, firm tone. "Consider it. Think about it. Think about it as you either participate in the triad demonstration or watch it, as it is broadcast later over the IFB. Look at those children - our future, our only hope for permanence -- and consider the mentor program."  
  
Adama scanned the faces one final time. No one spoke, but a rustling and shuffling of bodies indicated that everyone had been affected, one way or another, by the commander's message. Some would jump eagerly at the idea, some would feel open to the idea, though uncertain, while others would balk. But no one would ignore the message. "Okay, you are dismissed," he said at last. With that, Adama exited, followed by Colonel Tigh, who had graced them all with one final stare that dared the warriors to *not* seriously consider the commander's proposal, before also walking up the stairs and out through the conference room.   
  
Starbuck sat still, considering what Adama had just said and trying to define the uneasy feeling that was stirring within. Acute discomfort was only a part of it. To his right, though, Boomer was nodding in silent agreement. His expression was confident and determined. As he turned to him, Starbuck could see the excitement shining in his eyes. "Boomer, did I miss something?" He gave his friend a puzzled look.   
  
"Starbuck, that program was my idea! I had a talk with Colonel Tigh a couple of sectons ago and suggested we start something like this. Tigh let me know just the other day that the Council had approved of the idea and that he and Adama would be presenting it at this briefing." Boomer beamed at Starbuck. "I've already given the commander my name."  
  
"Really." Starbuck kept his tone neutral, but wondered why he felt such a sense of anxiety at what he knew Boomer was going to say next.  
  
"You'd be perfect for this!" Boomer continued, patting his friend enthusiastically on the shoulder, too excited to read his friend's uncertainty.   
  
People were filing out around them. Starbuck felt immobile as he tried to formulate an answer that would satisfy Boomer, yet make no commitment. Yes, he enjoyed their visits to the orphan ship, but to commit himself, especially right now . . . "Look," he said finally, "I'll think about it." He smiled and tried to sound casual. "I've got a lot on my mind right now," he said, being surprisingly honest.  
  
"Yeah, sure." Boomer's own excitement had eased enough to register Starbuck's uncertainty. He decided that now was not the time to press the issue. Instead, he said, "Why don't we head to the commissary? I bet you're pretty hungry."  
  
"Um, I, uh. . . need to talk to Apollo, first," Starbuck said, fidgeting. He felt the need to face Apollo jabbing at him from within. Starbuck turned to his left, looking behind him, expecting the captain to still be there, at the back of the audience chamber, waiting. But he was gone. "Hey!" He turned to Boomer. "Where'd he go? He was right behind us during the briefing!"  
  
Boomer stood, hands on hips, and scanned the few people who remained. "I don't know - wait! There he is." Boomer pointed to the front, near the partition that divided the conference room from the audience chamber.  
  
Starbuck looked to see Apollo deep in conversation with Sheba. At that distance, he could not hear their words, but he watched their expressions and gestures. Quiet gestures, subtle, Apollo's hand on Sheba's arm. . . Starbuck studied the scene, noting the slightly less than just casual space between them and the unwavering eye contact. And the expressions on their faces. The slight curl to Apollo's lips. The radiance in Sheba's eyes and the glow in her cheeks. And it clicked. Starbuck shook his head and laughed, loudly.  
  
Boomer gave him a quizzical look. "And what's so funny?"  
  
Apollo and Sheba had not even noticed that they were being watched. "Nothing, Boomer, nothing." Starbuck was not yet ready to voice his revelation. He gazed at the pair for a moment, before making a decision. Although he knew he needed to talk to the captain, to apologize, he also was not so eager that it could not wait. Besides, he thought mischievously, he needed time to digest what seemed to have happened between Apollo and Sheba. So, instead, he turned and headed for the rear exit, saying, "Come on!"  
  
Boomer looked from the captain and Sheba to Starbuck, puzzled, then followed. Out in the corridor, Starbuck had stopped, waiting, an amused expression on his face. Boomer gave him one more inquiring stare. "All right! What's going on? What was that all about?"  
  
"You'll have to ask Apollo that," he answered, deliberately unhelpful.   
Boomer shook his head and sighed, deciding to drop the subject, for the moment. He would end up with a headache if he tried to decipher it all right now. "Let's go to the commissary," he said at last.   
  
"Hey, Boomer!" Starbuck said, glancing at his chronometer. "I'm supposed to meet Copernicus for midday meal in a centar. Why don't you come too?"  
  
Boomer considered it, then asked, "Yeah, sure, but would that upset Copernicus? I mean, having an unfamiliar person around?" Boomer had not really gotten to know the man, but he knew quite a bit about him, from Starbuck.  
  
The lieutenant thought for a moment. "No," he said, seriously. "I don't think so. He'll be more likely to just ignore you." Then he flashed his friend a grin. "But then, you should be used to that!"  
  
Boomer groaned. "Keep it up, buddy. Just keep it up!"  
  
*******************  
The commissary was not crowded, with just several small groups of people gathered around at the long tables. Most ate quickly, downing their rations without tasting and only stopping to complain that the size of the protein cubes, carbo bars and high-nutrient discs seemed to be even smaller, although this was supposed to be the last day of the strict rationing. Most left unsatisfied and still hungry, despite the assurances that the portion assigned to each was nutritionally adequate and balanced for one meal.   
  
One more day, thought Starbuck, just one more day. He and Boomer were seated with Copernicus and Tarnia at a table in the back corner. Having missed the morning meal, the small pile of flavorless pieces that lay on his plate would do little to quiet the rumblings in his stomach. But a missed meal was a missed meal - no extra portions at the next, even though the computer kept track of who ate at which mealtime. Under emergency conditions such as this, at least in the ships where the technology existed, all people had their palm scanned and voice identification checked before they were given their allotted rations.  
  
Forcing himself to not devour the so-called food in front of him in three large bites, Starbuck, instead, watched in fascination as Copernicus slowly sliced all of his rations into four even pieces, careful to keep each with its own group of either protein, carbos, or nutrients, in three neat piles. Next, he speared a protein piece with his fork, popped it in his mouth and chewed the small morsel at least twenty times before swallowing. He did the same with part of a carbo bar, and then with a section of the nutrient disc. Finally, he took a small sip from his cup of water before starting the process over again, in the same pattern - protein, carbo, then nutrient, each chewed twenty times. Starbuck knew the number was consistent, because he had starting counting as he watched the man chew.  
  
Even with both Starbuck and Boomer staring at him, Copernicus seemed oblivious to everything and everyone. The two warriors had cheerfully greeted Tarnia and Copernicus as they had arrived, but they had had to say, "Hello, Copernicus!" several times, loudly and deliberately, before he had looked at them, smiled broadly, and exclaimed, "Hello!" He had immediately withdrawn back to his internal thoughts after that. As he ate, his movements and actions were almost mechanical, without thought, and his mind seemed a million metrons away. In another world.  
  
Boomer finally looked at Tarnia and asked, "Does he always eat like this?"  
  
Copernicus' protector smiled between her own tiny bites of rations, and said, "Yep. He's very methodical, and he's either totally absorbed with his own thoughts, or he'll talk to you nonstop about - well, whatever his mind is focused on at the time." She grinned at the two warriors.  
  
"But the piles . . .?" Boomer nodded towards Copernicus' orderly plate.  
  
"It has to do with making sense of the outside world," Tarnia explained. Everything can be so stressing to his senses, so he looks for order and symmetry. It's a coping strategy, really."  
  
"It's so interesting," Boomer commented with a smile, genuinely fascinated.   
  
Starbuck, nodding in agreement, finally picked up a protein cube and practically swallowed it whole, then gulped down several more. They did nothing to take the edge off of his hunger. Exercising a little more restraint, he nibbled at one of the bland carbo bars and continued to watch Copernicus proceed with his orderly consumption of rations. Taste seemed irrelevant, since his thoughts were obviously elsewhere. "So," he said to Tarnia between bites, "how's it going in the Lifestation?"  
  
"Good, real good," she answered. "It's nice to feel like I'm doing more than just existing and surviving. I hadn't been able to figure out any work arrangements on the Sagittarius, over the past yahren, since the Destruction, that would have let me keep an eye on Copernicus, too." Tarnia paused to gaze directly at Starbuck before she said, "Thanks, Lieutenant." Her eyes conveyed the depth of feeling beneath those two, simple words.   
  
"Uh, you're welcome." Starbuck looked over at Boomer, who had finished the last of his rations. "I'd give anything for a thick, juicy bovine cut right now!" He fingered the last of his carbo bars. "Or even just a nice, chemically reformulated talon burger."  
  
Tarnia chuckled, partly at the abrupt switch in the topic of conversation, and partly because they all shared that last sentiment. For nearly a yahren, now, most of the foods and drinks, all once taken for granted, were only memories from a time before the Destruction. For a while, the people had complained and grudgingly ate the synthesized, reformulated, chemically-altered food and drink that was now standard fare. Most of their food came from the versatile talon plant, which was edible from flower, to leaf, to root, rich in nutrients and fiber, could be force-grown in a couple of sectons, and could be used as the basis for most of the food replications. Now, in the face of strict rationing that had eliminated even the talon-based products for two sectons, the people more truly appreciated the luxury of their standard Fleet diet.  
  
Starbuck popped the last of his meal into his mouth and sighed, "I might as well have gotten the same food by infusion, the good it did! I'm still just as hungry!"  
  
Abruptly, Copernicus stopped, looked unblinkingly at the lieutenant. "I do not want any more," he said, pushing his plate, which still contained about half of his rations, towards Starbuck. "You can eat it."   
The lieutenant could only stare. "No! Look, I'm fine, Copernicus. Copernicus?" Starbuck was about to push the plate back, but realized that the man had tuned out again. He was absently sipping the rest of his water and gazing blankly at the wall.  
  
"Go ahead, Lieutenant!" Tarnia said with a wave of her hand. He won't eat it, now that he's stopped."   
  
Starbuck hesitantly reached a hand out to touch the man's arm, and said softly, "Copernicus?" Copernicus' head tilted just slightly, he blinked once, then shifted his gaze to the lieutenant to stare with eyes that were so bright, so deep and penetrating, before looking away again. "Thanks," Starbuck whispered in simple but sincere gratitude, certain now that he had heard him, even though his focus seemed distant. Boomer smiled as he watched his friend eat the rest of Copernicus' meal.  
  
As Tarnia had watched the exchange, Boomer had noticed, she had been quietly but intently been studying Starbuck, observing him, her face thoughtful. Gradually, her expression had taken on more serious shades. For a moment, she seemed to consider something as she chewed her lip, then she apparently reached a decision. Finally, she said slowly, "Lieutenant, I need to talk to you."  
  
"Yes?" Starbuck looked at her, puzzled.  
  
"Let me preface this by saying that I have learned, over the yahrens, when dealing with Copernicus, that there are times for subtlety and times for directness," she said slowly, carefully. "There are also times when the need to convey a point necessitates breaking a few social conventions."  
  
"Oh?" Starbuck had no idea what she was talking about, yet, but he had a suspicion that he was about to find out.  
  
Tarnia put her hands together on the tabletop, fingertips touching, and leaned forward to stare at the lieutenant. "What I'm about to say now, is both as a friend and as a professional." She paused to study Starbuck's puzzled face, then continued, "I've gotten to know a friend of yours in the Lifestation. Cassiopeia."  
  
Starbuck shifted uncomfortably.  
  
"We had a conversation this morning," She said even more deliberately.  
  
"Oh really." The response was short and tense. He knew exactly what they must have talked about. The exam. The psychological exam.  
  
Tarnia sensed his rising anger, but continued anyway. "I want you to know that it is *my* choice to talk to you here and now. Not Cassie's. She was only doing her job, as a medtech conferring with a therapist." She smiled faintly. "I'm sure she would be mortified by what I'm doing, but, as I said, sometimes it's just necessary to be direct."  
  
Starbuck said nothing, but felt his face going red. Boomer, also, could feel the sudden tension in the air. And maybe it was his imagination, but although Copernicus was still staring away from them, Boomer had the distinct impression that he was listening and absorbing everything that was transpiring.  
  
Tarnia continued, "Cassie told me that you have to schedule a psychological exam as part of your final evaluation, but she's afraid you're going to put it off."  
  
"Now why would I do that?" he said curtly. "I won't be cleared for duty until I have it." Normally, Starbuck would have smiled and tried to charm his way out of answering such a question, or would have skillfully changed the subject. Tarnia, however, had deliberately confronted him so that he was unable to use any of those defenses.  
  
"Were you really going to talk to me about it later today, when you came in for your physical?" She drilled him with a penetrating and knowing stare. "Or were you going to conveniently 'forget'?" Whereas Cassie, Boomer, or Apollo would have hesitated about being so blunt and cornering him like that, knowing how explosive he could be, Tarnia had carefully and intentionally put his back against the wall to force an honest reaction. The shear surprise of it, that a relative stranger would be so bold, also served to defuse his anger.  
  
Boomer watched his friend fidget and look away before Starbuck answered, "I - uh, well, maybe . . ."  
  
"I thought so." Tarnia's tone was gentle, yet admonishing now. "I'm aware that Cassie cares a great deal for you. And she knows you." Tarnia paused before saying, "We can easily do the psychological exam right after the physical. It'll only take a centar, or so."  
  
"Yeah, fine." Starbuck sounded far from eager.  
  
"Lieutenant," Tarnia said, her voice soothing, gentle. "you just can't put this off any longer. And you can't ignore it, either. I wouldn't have brought it up in front of your friend, here," she continued, nodding towards Boomer and giving him a soft smile, "except that I know he and all the others want to help you through this . . . if you'll just let them."  
  
Starbuck looked from Boomer to Tarnia, feeling the flush in his face, still, but unable to hold onto the anger. He finally said quietly, "Talk about cutting through the felgercarb. . ."  
  
Before he had time to think of anything else to say, Copernicus suddenly broke the awkward silence. Gazing directly at Starbuck, he said, "Yes, yes! It might work! If we can create a negative mass field."  
  
"What?" Starbuck shook his head, not comprehending.  
  
Copernicus continued, "It just might be possible to create a continuous propulsion effect by the juxtaposition of negative and positive mass, assuming that the resulting field will create negative inertia."  
  
"You've lost me, pal!" Starbuck was both relieved and confused by the interruption. He looked to Tarnia for an explanation, the tension from the previous moment dissipating.  
  
Copernicus continued to speak as if the lieutenant had been sharing the discussion all along. "If you have V as the gravitational scalar potential for the combined system, then the negative mass, -m, is located . . ." **  
  
Tarnia leaned over the table to whisper to the two confused-looking warriors, "I believe Wilker explained that their major project is to find some kind of fuel-less propulsion system for our space ships. I think that's what he's talking about - and probably been thinking about since this morning. It's a puzzle, a challenge. Copernicus loves puzzles like this!" She grinned in genuine enthusiasm on behalf of Copernicus, who was still describing his theory, oblivious to the others' reactions.  
  
Boomer laughed as his friend pretended to listen and nodded his head, even though he had no idea what the man was talking about. The affection that gleamed in Copernicus' eyes as he gazed at Starbuck was obvious. So he demonstrated it the only way he knew how, to include him in what had been -- and still was, really - an internal monologue. Starbuck, for his part, truly tried to look interested, at least, for a few centons, before a glance at his chronometer showed that it actually was time to leave.  
  
**( From "The Challenge To Create The Space Drive" by Marc G. Millis, NASA Glenn Research Center.)  
  
  
***************  
  
The Orphan Ship had been a cargo vessel before the Great Destruction, used for transporting massive amounts of products from one Colony to another. Her freight had ranged from seed for the Virgon farmers to sensitive military components for the Caprican Research Institute. Today, now, her holds were home to the most precious of all cargo: 759 children, from six- to fourteen-yahrens-old, who had no relative or guardian to care for them.   
  
Originally, several thousand orphans and lost children had been housed aboard the cargo ship, amid make-shift and crowded conditions. Through intense efforts, all but the those remaining had either been reunited with a family member or placed with a foster parent. And by the grace of the Lords of Kobol, almost all of the foster placements had or would become permanent adoptive arrangements. Many prospective parents were ones who had lost children, perhaps a whole family, during the Destruction, but only a few of the trial placements had not worked out.   
  
After nearly a yahren, though, the number of people looking to adopt had dwindled as families and populations aboard the different ships in the Fleet had stabilized. As it was, even before the exodus into space, the first to be adopted had been the babies, then the toddlers. Now, the youngest orphans were a small group of six- to eight-yahrens-old, mostly boys, who were not the picture-perfect, loveable child that many people had been seeking. And the older the child, no matter how well-dispositioned they might be, the less likely it would be to find a permanent placement for them.   
  
The orphans knew that this cargo ship would most likely be their home until either they reached Earth - or some other inhabitable planet - or they turned fifteen. At that age, provided they demonstrated the appropriate level of maturity and responsibility, the child would be granted "apprentice" status and allowed to pursue a guided but much more independent life in the Fleet. With help from the counselors on the Orphan Ship and other ships, they would enter a training program of their choice, begin working as a novice in that field, when possible, and move to suitable living quarters, usually a group setting with others in their training field. And the options were wide and varied: teacher, medtech, electronics technician, maintenance specialist, agri-specilist, even artisan, provided the child demonstrated enough talent. The most attractive position, though, was becoming a Colonial warrior, specifically a viper pilot.  
  
Especially among the younger children, the pilots were their heroes, their idols. That many of the pilots were also triad players only increased their status in the eyes of their admirers. Triad was the only organized sport that existed now in the Fleet, the only one, out of the many that had once filled the Interplanetary Broadcast Networks. So much of the people's culture had to be put on hold until a new home could be found . . .  
  
Thus, the children of the Orphan Ship, as they entered and scrambled to take their seats on temporary bleachers at the back of the ship's large landing bay, greeted the triad players with wildly enthusiastic shouts, screams, and cheers. The players all stood, grinning and waving, in front of the demonstration area, which consisted of sturdy backboards constructed to form two open-ended triad courts, each with tree walls, facing the bleachers. With all of the 759 children, their support staff and caregivers, the IFB crew, the players and the other assistants and technicians, the landing bay was packed to capacity, almost.  
  
And because many, but not all, of the triad players were pilots, Adama had limited the demonstrations to 12 of the 22 teams, not for reasons of space, but for security. All of the players, six teams from the men's league and six from the women's league, had arrived earlier. The 24 players had had to change into their uniforms on the Galactica, before taking a shuttle to the Orphan Ship. The shuttle had then departed to allow room for setting up the demonstration area. Of those 24 players, eleven were pilots and would be unavailable, in the off chance that Cylons attacked. And while that chance seemed infinitely small, the commander would never compromise the safety of the Fleet.   
  
While the players waved and smiled in greeting to the children, as they clamored to their seats, Boomer watched his two friends out of the corner of his eye. Although the men and women's teams were interspersed in one group, they all remained close to their partners: Boomer and Greenbean, Dietra and Brie, Barton and Security Corporal Davies, and the others, including the former champions, Apollo and Starbuck. They waved, they grinned, they even exchanged bantering comments; Boomer was relieved to see that the harsh words from the previous evening had been forgiven. And while not completely certain, Boomer now had a clearer idea of what else had transpired.   
  
After the meal with Copernicus, he and Starbuck had gone to the billet to change for the triad demonstrations. Upon entering, the lieutenant had paused briefly, looking visibly tense, before donning his façade of nonchalance and strolling on in. Apollo was already there, along with all of the other male players, pilots and non-pilots alike, since their triad uniforms had been transported from the Rising Star to the billet for this occasion.  
  
As they had approached, Apollo had looked up, his expression serious, lips slightly pursed. And he had gazed at his friend with an unblinking expression that penetrated all pretext. Starbuck had locked eyes for a micron, long enough to read the message, then silently started sorting through his triad equipment, which lay on a bench next to the captain. After fidgeting with a strap for several microns, though, the lieutenant had finally glanced up. Boomer, pulling out through his own gear, had watched and listened intently.  
  
"Ah, look, Apollo . . ." Starbuck spoke quietly, still staring at the strap. "I didn't mean - that is, I . . ."  
  
"It wasn't just you. I overreacted, too." Apollo was adjusting his knee pads, being careful not to draw the other players' attention.  
  
Starbuck finally stopped and stared directly at the captain. "I acted like a frakking snit rad and I'm sorry."   
  
"I agree. And I accept your apology," Apollo had said after a moment.  
  
Boomer had frowned, puzzled, as he had noticed the slight curl to Apollo's lip. The confusion only grew as Starbuck, after another brief micron of silence, had added, "Although, it seems like maybe I did you a favor?"   
  
"Yeah, I think you did." Apollo had looked down, blushing, pretending to tighten his knee pad but unable to conceal the smile.  
  
For several centons they had all concentrated on changing. At last, though, when neither one seemed willing to offer any further information, Boomer had felt ready to explode. Moving to stand between his friends, he had asked in a whisper, "Okay. I give up. Just what are you two talking about?"  
  
"Sheba," Starbuck had said with a wiry grin as he pulled his tunic over his head. Apollo had said nothing, but the gleam in his eye had finally illuminated the picture for Boomer; he had forgotten that Sheba and Apollo had left together the previous evening. The sudden revelation, unexpected, had washed away the heavy feelings of concern that had been dominating him all morning. Perhaps the day would be one to enjoy afterall.  
  
The new champion's reflections were interrupted as a blue-clad figure separated from the group of triad players, and Boomer refocused his mind back to the present. A moment later, the voice of Colonel Tigh reverberated through the sound system, echoing through the landing bay. "Young ladies and gentlemen. . ."  
  
The hubbub of voices and restless bodies quickly quieted as the children settled down to see their favorite players introduced.  
  
Tigh continued, "Please welcome some of our best triad teams, starting with Silver Team's Berta and Kassandra!" The children cheered and whistled as the two players trotted out, waving. Grabbing a ball from an assistant, Berta and her partner jogged onto the demonstration court and took several centons to show off some of their rebounding passes.  
  
Then Tigh's voice boomed out, loud enough to be heard over the cheers, "Next, we have Red Team's Barton and Davies!"  
  
Berta and Kassandra passed the ball off to the next players, and the show continued, with the colonel alternating between the women and men's teams. Eventually, all that remained were the final three teams. "It is my pleasure," Tigh paused, waiting for relative silence, then spread his arms theatrically, before saying, "to introduce the new men's champions - Blue Team's Boomer and Greenbean!"  
  
Boomer felt a warm, exhilarated rush as all other thoughts dissipated. Looking out across the sea of young faces, radiant and joyful, all that matter was this moment, the here and now. He was here to give all he could to the children, to let them know that he and the others cared, that their smiles and happiness were more reward than all the cubits in the Fleet. Waving with both hands, he and Greenbean ran in opposite directions in front of the stands, and as he passed the far end, Boomer spotted Ezekial waving wildly at him. He flipped him a thumbs-up before heading to the demo court.  
  
Several centons later, Tigh's voice announced, "And now, the reigning women champions - Green Team's Brie and Dietra!" Even before the colonel had concluded his introduction, the two had quietly approached the court. Rushing forward, Brie intercepted the ball as Boomer was completing a hard throw to Greenbean and made a side-arm pass to her partner. With all the grace of a dancer, Dietra spun around and leaped, slapping the ball midair into the goal. As she landed, she blew a two-handed kiss to the crowd and playfully jabbed Boomer in the ribs. The children erupted into wild, gleeful cheers and laughter.   
  
Not to be out done, Greenbean snatched the ball away from Brie after an official tossed it back into play. Instead of passing it, though, he simply stopped and held the ball over his head, grinning at the considerably shorter Brie. The pilot stopped, crossed her arms, and put on an exaggerated pout. However, the flight sergeant failed to notice that Dietra had moved behind him. While Boomer motioned for his partner to throw the ball, Dietra jumped and knocked it out of Greenbean's hand. Brie sprang to life and dove for the ball, hitting it just before Boomer could. For several more centons, the two teams played with serious concentration within the limitations of the three-sided court, neither gaining the advantage. Finally, just as it looked as if Boomer were going to score, Brie and Dietra both wrapped themselves around him, pulling him down. The mock game ended with Greenbean looking on in amusement while the two women sat on his partner's back, pinning him down and waving at the screaming, laughing children.  
  
"Ah, there is one more team left," Tigh said after the noise had subsided and the four players had vacated the demo court. "The recently de-throned champions are none other than Gold Team's -" The colonel paused as the two stepped forward. "Apollo and Starbuck!"  
  
Still panting to catch his breath, Boomer watched as his two friends waved to the children. Unlike the other teams, though, Apollo and Starbuck moved to stand next to the colonel, instead of heading to the demo court. As Tigh spoke to the crowd, his eyes were on the lieutenant. "Before we continue with more fun and festivities, Lieutenant Starbuck would like to say a few words." Tigh handed the portable audiophone to the warrior and stepped back.  
  
Boomer was watching intently now. Starbuck, one hand on his hip, lips pursed, looked down at the floor briefly before gazing out at the expectant faces spread in front of him. "Uh, hi!" The words reverberated through the hushed silence as the children waited. "How many of you watched the game last night?"  
  
Nearly every hand shot up. Boomer thought he saw Starbuck wince.  
  
"Well, if you were watching the post-game interviews," he continued, grinning at the crowd, "you saw me demonstrate how *not* to react with an annoying, pushy reporter."  
  
The children laughed and applauded. Boomer shook his head, chuckling and groaning at the same time.  
  
"Look, I want you all to know that I regret what I did." The smile had abruptly faded from Starbuck's face, and the children had taken notice. "No matter what the reason, I'm sure your teachers have told you that fighting is not the answer. And they're right. I acted without thinking, and I'm sorry if you saw that." Starbuck took a moment to gaze across the young faces in front of him. They were quiet this time, listening. When he continued, his voice was softly serious. "And I want you to know that there were consequences. I know I was wrong, so I accept them. I apologize for the bad example I set. I apologize for acting, well, like an idiot with my friends and teammates." He glanced at his partner.  
  
"Finally," Starbuck said, his voice stronger, a defiant edge creeping in. "I apologize to Mr. Rivaldo, esteemed reporter for the IFB. I have two regrets with you." Starbuck was staring directly at the camera now. His tone was deliberately calm and he spoke slowly. "One, that I gave you the satisfaction of that kind of reaction, which brought me down to your low level. And two, that you are so self-absorbed in your quest for sensationalism that you would even consider asking the kind of question that you asked me. It was not worthy of any response. I'm sorry."  
  
Starbuck turned his attention back to the children, aware that the mood was far too serious for the occasion. Thus, he graced them with a grin. "Now, in case you're wondering just what the consequences were," he said, "let's just say they were somewhere between pulling a secton's worth of long range patrols and spending that secton scrubbing turboflushes!" With a wave, he handed the audiophone back to Colonel Tigh. The crowd clapped and cheered as he and Apollo returned to the group. Tigh was frowning, but his true reaction was indiscernible.   
  
And the colonel had no time to ponder the lieutenant's apology; it was time for the main presentations. Using a transparent net as a fourth wall, the teams were to alternate between the two courts, playing a total of four ten-centon demonstration games. Match ups were chosen at random, since only four each of the men's and women's teams would play. The first to perform were Brie and Dietra against Kassandra and Berta. While they played, the second court was used for warm-ups by the others. Play by play was provided by Apollo and Starbuck, since they could not compete.   
  
"Uh, Kassandra passes to Berta - no, wait! That's an intercept by, uh . . . Dietra!" The children laughed as Apollo struggled to keep up with the action and remember to verbalize what he saw. He and Starbuck sat on seats in front of the courts, audiophones in hand, craning their necks to follow the ball.   
  
"Oh, Dietra scores!" Starbuck cut in. "What a jump! What form! What a--" Apollo's elbow in his ribs cut him off. "Hey!" He turned to Apollo.  
  
"Starbuck, this is for the kids, remember?" Apollo had recognized the look in his partner's eye and performed his own "intercept."  
  
"Oh, right. Okay," he said, looking suitably embarrassed, as the official tossed the ball over the net and into play.  
  
After a while, as Apollo became more adept at announcing the games, Starbuck stood and turned to the children, taking on the role of cheerleader, as he walked back and forth in front of the bleachers. Listening to Apollo's play-by-play, he was able to keep his attention on them as he encouraged their shouts and cheers. Soon, others, their games complete, had joined him. As the demonstrations ended, all of the triad players gathered in front of the children for a question-answer session. For nearly another centar, they did their best to answer all questions, trying to choose fairly from the sea of hands. They hated to leave any of the children disappointed, but, at last, Colonel Tigh interrupted to bring the proceedings to a closing.  
  
Players waved as the orphans were ushered out of the landing bay. Even amid the noise of the technicians disassembling the courts and packing up equipment, the atmosphere was subdued, the excitement gone, as reality crept back. It was back to work, back to duty for most after the shuttle took them back to the Galactica. Apollo had rosters and patrol assignments to work out. Starbuck was wishing that he could skip the impending physical and psychological exams and just escape to the Rising Star, where he was to meet Chameleon later. Only Boomer, who had brought his uniform with him, was still smiling, still feeling the happy emotions, as he headed off to change, then meet with Ezekial.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter Eight

CHAPTER 8  
  
"Patrol One to Galactica. We are approximately three centons from sensor range of the target. Will transmit a direct feed of all data simultaneously. Apollo out."  
  
"Acknowledged."  
  
At maximum velocity, it had taken them only 80 centons to reach their current position. The captain had used the time to brief Boomer on what little they knew about the object. Both had made few speculations, then, to avoid any preconceptions, but the silent hope was that it would turn out to be an asteroid or other kind of harmless space debris. As they approached sensor range now, all conversation had ceased and they slowed to minimum velocity.  
  
"One centon to sensor range," Apollo said. "We'll come to a full stop to perform the scans. Prepare to fire reverse thrusters to neutralize all forward momentum."  
  
"I copy," answered Boomer.  
  
"20 microns . . . 10 . . . 5 . . . now!" Both pilots activated a preprogrammed burst with the reverse thrusters to bring their ships to, essentially, a standstill.  
  
"Okay, here it goes!" Apollo flipped a series of switches to initiate the preliminary scans. A moment later, Boomer followed the same procedures. For several long microns their screens remained blank and they waited. Then, the details began rolling up their displays, and while they were still too far out for visual contact, an outlined image formed on the screens. It was no asteroid.  
  
"By the Lords of Kobol . . ." Boomer said. "What is it?"   
  
"Commander, are you getting this?" Apollo asked. "It looks like a probe of some kind. . ." The image showed a round structure with two long protrusions extending from it. The two-dimensional diagram was difficult to interpret, though.  
  
"We're getting it," Adama's voice sounded through their helmets.  
  
"Negative on any known explosive compositions," Boomer commented, reading from his display. "The infrared signature is being generated, it appears, by a low level of radioactivity."  
  
"Run a tighter scan on the source of that radioactivity," said the commander.  
  
Boomer's display focused on the end of one of the two apertures. "It's being emitted from the object's power source, according to this."  
  
"Yes. . ." Adama sounded thoughtful, even over the comline. "A radio isotopic thermal generator. An ancient and inefficient propulsion system. Ancient. . . Must be a leak in the shielding, though."  
  
"Oh, Lords. . ." Apollo felt an intense excitement building from within. "This doesn't match any know Cylon technology." He stopped to refocus his mind. Too much was still unknown. They had to remain cautious. "Okay, Boomer, let's do that final scan."  
  
"Will do."  
  
The last precaution that they could take before risking a closer approach involved emitting a series of electromagnetic pulses designed to detonate any possible explosive devices that might be awaiting them. At least, the pulses would trigger the vast majority of any known explosive compositions; it was not a guarantee against other, more elaborate destruct programs. But then again, even the most detailed scans by the Galactica's top demolition experts could not provide a complete guarantee of safety.  
  
Apollo and Boomer counted the microns, barely breathing, waiting. Nothing. After three centons, Apollo broke the silence. "Negative on known explosives. Boomer, let's take a closer look! We'll have visual contact in two centons."  
  
Both pilots activated turbos. With monitors on standby, they watched their black, faintly flickering screens in anticipation as they approached. At last, sensors were able to lock onto the object, and an image appeared.  
  
"Look at it. . ." Boomer said softly, feeling the excitement expanding to a sense of awe. The main feature was what appeared to be a large receptive dish. Protruding from the back were two narrow trusses, with paddle-like objects on the end of the four-wire extensions. Stretching out in the opposite direct was a long, thin pole. "That's a probe configuration, if I ever saw one. But where's it from?"  
  
"Well, we know that we're nearing a binary star system," answered Apollo, pausing as he studied the readouts. "Given that its current velocity is sublight -- I mean, *way* below lightspeed! -- that might be the safest guess. If there proves to be evidence of intelligent life in that system."  
  
"Let me check something." Boomer ran several calculations through the computer. Eventually, he said, "Its trajectory indicates that it could, indeed, have come from that binary system, but . . ."  
  
"We can't be sure," Apollo finished. "It's course could have been altered by the gravitational forces of that system. We probably won't know until we are within scanner range of any planets."  
  
******************  
"Build me." Starbuck pushed two of the hexagonal cards forward, then relaxed back into his chair, taking a long drag on his fumarello. The dealer swept the discards into a pile and slipped two more cards above the lieutenant's four other cards. All those face up were green, the second highest of the three colors.  
  
"No build for me." Chameleon sat next to Starbuck, arms crossed, the slightest of smiles on his face. The hand in front of him also revealed three cards of the same suit, purple, the highest of the colors.  
  
Starbuck glanced at his friend's hand, then studied his face for a moment. If the three unrevealed cards in front of him were also purple and of the appropriate level, then he could have a perfect third-level pyramid. Then again, he could have nothing. As the play moved around to the two other players, Starbuck pondered which way the cards were likely to fall. With no computer in hand, the calculations had to be mental; that had been the agreement between Chameleon and him.  
  
"Final bets," The dealer announced.  
  
Starbuck ran the odds through his mind one more time, clamped the fumarello between his teeth, and deposited three even stacks next to the cards in front of him. "I'll hover with these."  
  
Chameleon did not hesitate as he matched the three stacks. Then he added a fourth. "I'll meet the three hundred and raise it to four."  
  
The next person matched the bet, while the fourth decided his chances were too slim and folded. The dealer turned back to Starbuck and raised an eyebrow. Fighting the wave of doubt that tried to well up, Starbuck slid another pile of cubits across the table. He flashed his most confident grin at the dealer as he nodded his readiness to continue.  
  
The dealer added one final card to the house hand, which showed a perfect second-level pyramid, purple suit. Any third-level hand would beat the dealer; who won the pot depended on who had the highest hand. Starbuck, grin still in place, flipped his cards to reveal three more green cards -- a perfect third-level pyramid. The other player, not bothering to wait for Chameleon, tossed his cards forward, knowing he had lost. Starbuck looked expectantly at his companion.  
  
Chameleon's face was impassive as he slowly turned over each of the cards, revealing all purple, and all of the appropriate level. A perfect third-level pyramid, also, but of the higher suit. Quietly, he raked the cubits towards him. "I believe that's three for me and one for you." His eyes reflected amusement.  
  
"Fine, fine!" Starbuck dropped all pretense and frowned, eyeing the few remaining cubits that sat on the table in front of him.   
  
"Let's take a break for dinner, hmm?" Chameleon said, scooping his winnings into a pouch.  
  
"Okay," Starbuck answered, pointing the fumarello at him, Abut you're buying the drinks."  
  
"My pleasure. And I'll also tell you where you miscalculated."  
  
  
"Humph!" Starbuck pushed his chair back and pocketed the small stack of cubits as he rose to his feet. Under the current restrictions, no food could be served in the chancery, so Starbuck made his way out into the dinner lounge. After surveying the room, he spotted an empty table in the back corner and headed towards it.   
  
Within a centon of sitting down, a waiter approached the two. "Will you be dining tonight?" He asked.  
  
Starbuck nodded. Then, instead of a menu, the waiter placed a portable ID-scanner in front of them on the table. First the lieutenant, then Chameleon, placed their palms onto the pad. For each, a flashing green light indicated that they were cleared to receive their next -- and final! -- allotted rations. It also recorded the transaction as processed; a second scan of their palms would have been met with a flashing red light. Fortunately, Starbuck reflected, the restrictions would be lifted at 0000, and breakfast could be the feast after the famine. Talon-porcine patties and synthetic scrambled ovums never sounded so good!  
  
"May I bring you gentlemen a drink?" The waiter gazed from Starbuck to Chameleon.  
  
"Two ambrosas." Starbuck said. Not everything was restricted, and he intended to enjoy at least a part of the dinner. As the waiter left, the lieutenant leaned back and shook his head at Chameleon. "Okay. So how'd you manage to edge me out the last three times?"  
  
"My dear lad," Chameleon said, "you've got to remember that I've been running these systems before you were even born. I've had much more time and experience at it."  
  
"Is that all you're going to tell me?"  
  
"There's not much more to say. It takes practice, that's all. Practice at using your head instead of those computers you've been relying on. You've got to let the patterns flow and become a part of your thinking when you're playing. Second nature." Chameleon smiled at Starbuck. "If it's any consolation, you're better than I was at your age."  
  
"Really?" Starbuck paused as the waiter returned with their scant rations and two tall glasses of ambrosa. It crossed the lieutenant's mind that he had better watch his consumption level, because with those meager portions of food, it would be barely a step above drinking on an empty stomach. Starbuck looked up to watch Chameleon take a long, slow sip of ambrosa.   
  
As he set the glass down, he grimaced. "Weak, too weak, but better than nothing, I suppose."  
  
"Just what I was thinking." Starbuck gazed at his companion intently for a moment, brow furrowing, lips pursed."  
  
"What's wrong?" Chameleon asked. "Why so serious?"  
  
"Ah, nothing. . ." Starbuck took a long swig of his own ambrosa, feeling the alcohol, although weak and almost flavorless, still burn in his throat and through his sinuses.   
  
"Does it matter whether or not we're related?" Chameleon asked, reading the lieutenant's expression and accurately guessing his thoughts.  
  
"Yes, no -- I don't know! I suppose not." Starbuck gave a wistful look. "It's just that, well, how can we seem so, you know. . ."  
  
"Alike? Well, maybe just coincidence." Chameleon stared for a moment at the face, at the deep blue eyes, in front of him as he took another slow drink of the ambrosa. Cassie is right, he thought. There's a need, an empty space that only one thing can fill. I thought that being friends would be enough, but it's not the same to him. A sense of trepidation pulled at him. He's my son, he mused. My son. Doesn't he deserve to know that?  
  
  
****************  
  
Boomer stared at the probe through his canopy and felt a sense of deep amazement. He and Apollo had reached its location, finally, had circled it several times, taking detailed readings, and had then taken up positions on either side, flying at a matching velocity. The probe remained silent, oblivious of their presence. For how long, he wondered, had it been sailing the vast seas of the universe? Where was it from? From that binary star system? Or some other system much further away? Wherever it was from, given its current sublight velocity, it could have been in space for thousands and thousands of yahren, maybe more; at its present speed, it would take it over 500,000 yahren for it to travel one light-yahren. The thought was awe-inspiring and humbling. They might never be able to meet the makers of this probe. Maybe they could meet their descendants. And barring outside influences, the probe could sail on indefinitely, as close to forever as one could come . . .  
  
"Commander, what are your recommendations?" Apollo's voice broke the silence and Boomer's reflections.  
  
For a long moment that stretched well into a centon, Adama said nothing. Finally, his voice sounded through the comline. "Bring it in. Attach the tow lines and bring it into Beta Bay. We'll establish a security screen around it and perform a thorough decontamination, first."  
  
"What about the radiation?" Boomer asked.  
  
Another pause while the commander studied the readouts. Apollo and Boomer did the same, once more, looking for anything important they might have missed, anything that might be a danger to the Fleet, should they bring in the probe. Boomer had basically come to the same conclusion when the commander answered finally, "The level is not high enough to be a concern. I'd say that the power source seems to be just barely operational. We should be able to seal the radiation leak without a problem."  
  
"What will you tell the Council?" Apollo asked.  
  
The commander's sigh was audible, even over the comline. "We are obligated to inform the Council, but, at least, we can be fairly sure that this will be kept strictly confidential until we know more about this probe. At which point, we will inform the Fleet of our discovery. The Council is fully aware of the new procedures."  
  
"So when do we bring it in?" The excitement in Apollo's voice was evident, despite his efforts to remain detached and professional.  
  
"We will need at least two centars to prepare the decon screening and the security arrangements. We'll contact you when everything is set. For now, maintain current positions. Galactica out."  
  
"Acknowledged."  
  
Apollo turned to stare at their flying companion and tried to contain the emotions that were building up inside; an indescribable elation. This was the second time that they had intercepted an alien craft, but this was different. He could not explain it, but something was telling him that this was an extraordinary encounter.  
  
The first time had been the encounter with the ship from Lunar Seven, when they had pulled the vessel from its course towards the planet Paradeen. In their enthusiasm, they had made countless mistakes in dealing with the unknown ship and its occupants. In addition, the commander and the Council had disagreed, miscommunicated, and done everything but work cooperatively. It had not only come off as farcical in the end analysis, but all had realized that their actions had almost killed the Lunar Seven passengers. Adama had vowed to not repeat such blunders. Working directly with the Council, he and they had established specific procedures and guidelines to follow on any future "first contact" situations.  
  
  
This time, though, was different. The probe contained no life forms to complicate the situation. Procedures were straightforward: notify the Council and keep them directly informed and involved, but all decisions about Fleet security and *when* to release the information to the general population were up to the Commander. Period.  
  
Apollo took a deep breath, savoring the intensity of emotions. This was it. This was the true reason he loved being a warrior. Not to fly and fight and defend. No, he was a Colonial warrior and viper pilot because it was the closest he could come to being a space explorer. At one time, before the endless war with the Cylons, man had reached out to the heavens, had sent out their own probes towards distant stars, and had dreamed of contacting other civilizations and races. Man had dreamed of exploring the universe. Then the unthinkable had happened. Man had reached out, only to encounter the Cylons, a race that viewed humans as illogical, as a disease to be eradicated. For over a thousand yahrens, humankind had had to fight for the right to exist. Since that time, all science and technology had been devoted not to exploration and discovery, but to war and preservation. Over a millennium.  
  
So what tales could these people, these beings, tell us? Apollo closed his eyes in wonderment. Where was this probe from? What was life like for them when this craft was built? Even if the probe had been created by a race that inhabited the binary star system, it would have had to have been launched well over five hundred yahren ago. So what was their civilization like now? Did they even exist at all? Were they a race that still thrived, after thousands and thousands of yahren, or had they succumbed to the frailties and faults that had threatened the human race more than once? Apollo felt both great joy and an intense sadness as these reflections floated through his mind. Somehow, even after the incredible encounter with Count Iblis and the Ship of Lights beings, even after experiencing their awesome power and potential, this unobtrusive, quiet probe was more relevant, its implications more profound, to him.   
  
  
***************  
"Starbuck, surely you realize that genetics is only a small part of having a family?" Elbows resting on the table, Chameleon peered across the top of his drink at his son. He knew he needed to be honest with the lieutenant, but he also knew that this required a delicate approach, that he would need to use all of his persuasive skills to set the proper stage for the truth. "What about Apollo and the commander? It's obvious that they care for you a great deal -- like family. In my lifetime, I've seen countless blood relatives, many families, that couldn't get along, that treated each other with far less compassion than I see between Apollo or the commander and you."  
  
Starbuck concentrated on his rations, staring at his eating utensil as he chewed, avoiding eye contact. Eventually, he looked up. "Look, I know that. I know that in my head. But I've always just felt that a piece of the picture is missing. I mean, you, Apollo, Boomer, the commander -- you all have a history. I don't even know my real age! When was I born? What was my name? What did my parents do? Did I have any brothers or sisters?"  
  
Chameleon nodded, listening, wanting him to open up. Starbuck, he knew, seldom did this; he knew because Cassie had told him so much about his son over the past sectars, as she had tried to persuade him reveal the truth. So much of what she had said had sounded so familiar. The genetic link was undeniable.  
  
Starbuck stabbed at the last piece of food but did not eat it. "I, I know it doesn't make sense, or really matter," he said, toying with the tasteless morsel, "but I just feel like there's this. . . this vast, empty void, where everyone else has a family history." He jabbed the last bite into his mouth.   
  
"What if those missing relatives turned out to be thieves and scoundrels?" Chameleon gave a half smile, trying to lighten the conversation a bit, to keep the mood serious but too much so.   
  
"Well, at least, I'd know!" Starbuck gulped down the last of his ambrosa. "I don't care if they were the worst bunch of murderers and cutthroats in the Colonies -- at least, I'd have a *reason* to say I didn't know them!"  
  
  
"Look at it this way, then," Chameleon said. "You can imagine that they are whatever you want them to be."  
  
Starbuck grimaced at the attempted humor and nodded when the waiter appeared with the decanter of ambrosa. He watched as the pale-gold liquid bubbled and fizzed as it filled the tall glass. Inwardly, he felt an odd mixture of frustration, tinged with what could only be described as recklessness, bubbling like the ambrosa beneath the surface.   
  
Chameleon declined a refill and eyed the lieutenant. "A good player needs a clear head," he admonished when Starbuck gulped down several more mouthfuls.  
  
"You've got all my cubits, remember?" Starbuck put the glass on the table, though. He was, after all, supposed to be back on duty the next day.  
  
"I've been meaning to ask you something." Chameleon crossed his arms and stared intently at the lieutenant.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I've always wondered. . . well, I know that learning about your family is very important to you, so I've always been curious -"  
  
"About what?" Starbuck raised an eyebrow at his companion's hesitancy. Although he and Chameleon had spent several evenings socializing and gambling, over the past sectars, they had always avoided the one subject that had brought them together in the first place. Until now.  
  
"Okay. Just suppose that those tests we did had been, well . . . positive. Suppose I *was* your father. Would you really have given up everything to be with me? Remember that conversation we had in your viper? When you said that you were going to quit the service?"  
  
"I - " Starbuck frowned, wondering, thinking. He let his mind float back to that moment. Not unlike the present, he had been battling the feeling of being out of control, as events and possibilities flew at him faster than he could deal with them. To find Chameleon, who *might* be his father, after so many yahren of wondering, after eventually accepting -- or so he thought -- that he would never know about his family. To see his closest friends doubting that possibility, when he learned that Apollo had had Colonel Tigh run a security check on Chameleon. He had exploded at Apollo and Boomer because he had been fighting and denying the more likely truth -- that the odds were against Chameleon being his father. At last, Starbuck answered, "At the time, yes. I was serious about what I said."  
  
"But at that time you also thought that I was a genetic tracer and nobly trying to reunite children with their relatives."  
  
"True . . ."  
  
"The reality was that I was a dishonest conman who stooped so low as to use you and your orphan background to escape from those Nomen. Knowing that, I've always wondered what you would have done, had . . . well. . . had the results been positive."  
  
Starbuck stared into the ambrosa for a moment. "I'm not sure," he said finally, quietly. What would he have done? The answer was nebulous, obscured. He tried to picture the scene, the one where Cassie had given them the test results, from that other perspective. But the emotions were just too intense to resolve into a clear image. At the time, he had been bombarded by the shock from learning the truth after nearly being killed by the Borellian Nomen, the deep, deep disappointment, the disgust at the way he had treated Apollo and Boomer. It had actually been easier just to push it all away and return to the familiar role of orphan.  
  
"Okay, here's one more supposition." Chameleon paused, feeling his heart beating faster. Starbuck looked up at him, puzzled, as he pulled his mind back to the present. Chameleon continued. "Suppose the results had been positive. And suppose you were me. How would you feel if you knew you might cause your son to give up what you *know* he loves most -- his career and friends?"  
  
  
"Why are you asking me this?" Starbuck had picked up his glass, absently, but did not drink. Something was tugging at the back of his mind. Or maybe he was just distracted by the jumble of memories and the odd direction of Chameleon's questions.  
  
"I've just wondered what would have happened, had you been, really . . . my son. I would have hated to see you do something as rash and foolish as resign from the service. And have known that it was because of me. How could a father allow that?"  
  
"But it doesn't matter, does it?" Starbuck asked, looking more confused. He set the glass down and stared at Chameleon. The nagging sensation was ringing like an alarm klaxon now. His own keen ability to sense what was going on, even before it happened, sometimes, had kicked in. He used it with Apollo all the time, allowing him to seemingly read his friend's thoughts. He had developed these instincts on the streets, as on orphan, and had honed them through his warrior training.  
  
"It's just that this has been troubling me, that's all. Can you humor me? What would you have done -- in my place? Would you have told, right then and there, or would you have waited for a better time?" Chameleon felt the thumping in his chest and struggled to keep his face calm and curious.  
  
"Okay . . ." Starbuck exhaled. "I would probably have waited. . ." His mind was only half aware of what he was saying. His voice trailed off, and he frowned at Chameleon. The man was sweating. "Are you trying to tell me something?"  
  
"I've just wondered what things would have been like if, well, you really were my son." Chameleon felt his control slipping. He had had everything, every word, planned out ahead of time. Gone over the possible scenarios in his mind. He had talked his way in and out of so many situations in the past that it was second nature to him. But now, he was feeling uncertain, afraid even, his will faltering. What was he doing?  
  
It was too late, though. Everything clicked. Starbuck read his face as clearly as if he had shouted the words. "My God. What are you saying?"  
  
"Starbuck, I -- I need to tell you -"  
  
"You've been lying to me all this time!" Starbuck stood up so quickly that his chair tumbled over. At any other time, Chameleon's reasoning and approach would most likely have worked. Under normal circumstances, Starbuck would have followed the clearly laid out logic. But not now. His own words, his own admission that he would probably have waited, crumbled in the face of one thought: Chameleon had lied to him. His own father had lied. His father. Chameleon was his father, and he had not seen fit to tell him that. For all these sectars, he had been lying to him!  
  
Starbuck glared at the man, the stranger whom he thought he had known, his father. His head was spinning. All the fury, all the self-doubt and fear, that had been pent up the past eleven days and eleven exhaustive, sleepless nights exploded. "You. Lied. To. Me." Starbuck pounded the table with both fists, hard enough to topple the glasses, then stormed out of the dinner lounge.  
  
Chameleon just stared, unable to move, at the empty door where his son had disappeared.   
  
******************  
"Patrols One and Two, zero-gravity conditions are enacted. You are cleared for Beta Bay."  
  
"Acknowledged." Apollo switched comlines. "Boomer, you go in first."  
  
"Kay-O. Good luck." Boomer glided into the bay. Without the typical pull from the ship's gravitational field, Boomer used his reverse thrusters to stop his forward motion and bring his viper to a stop. He felt the tug as the viper's gear reacted to the magnetic field of the floor, which was activated when the artificial gravity was not engaged. In addition, a shielding wall had been employed to create a contained environment in that part of the bay, reducing their landing space by 40%. The enclosed conditions, at the moment, with both the gravity and atmosphere deactivated, matched the space outside the ship. Remaining inside his cockpit, Boomer used his rear monitor to watch the captain land.  
  
  
Apollo approached carefully, gliding in at minimal velocity, keeping one eye on the bay in front of him and one eye on the probe beside him, connected by the short tow line. The angle of his approach was critical, because he wanted to bring the alien craft in as carefully as possible. Slowly, slowly, he activated the reverse thrusters in short, precise bursts until he appeared to almost be floating in the weightless, airless bay. Gradually, he eased his ship downward, until the magnetic field caught hold of the landing gear and pulled the viper to the floor. The probe, drifting several metrons above the viper, continued moving forward until it reached the end of the tether. It recoiled a little, and then, still being outside of the influence of the magnetic field, it settled into a gently rotating hover about the viper.  
  
Apollo let out a held breath as he watched the probe through his canopy. Perfect. Given its design, which was not exactly suitable for landings, he had wanted to avoid damaging the delicate looking features of the probe. Finally he said, "This is Patrol One. Go ahead with phase two."  
  
"Acknowledged. Atmosphere will be suitable for breathing in 70 centons."  
  
"I think I'll take a nap," Boomer said with an exaggerated yawn, "Since we're already two centars into sleep period."  
  
"Oh, Boomer," Apollo said, still staring at the slowly drifting probe, "I couldn't sleep if I tried! It's just incredible to look at."  
  
"Yeah, I know what you mean," the lieutenant responded softly.   
  
Once the atmosphere had been restored to the secured area, Apollo and Boomer were able to exit their vipers. The radiation exposure would be minimal and not hazardous in the amount of time it took to exit the bay. Apollo would have loved to have just floated up to examine the probe, right then and there, but safety procedures required both them and the probe to be thoroughly decontaminated. Following the most basic law of physics, all they had to do was aim at the containment wall and push off from their vipers.  
  
"I'll race you!" Apollo had popped his canopy and was watching Boomer pull himself out of the cockpit. Riding on the euphoria of their find, he felt as giddy as their weightless environment. Without waiting for a response from his wingman, Apollo used the top edge of his canopy and launched himself towards the wall.  
  
"Hey!" Boomer, feeling more awkward and cautious, not wanting to end up in the embarrassing situation of being stranded with nothing to hold onto, watched the   
captain sail slowly by and, several moments later, grab onto one of the numerous handholds protruding from the containment wall. Still feeling a bit wary, Boomer followed suit more carefully.  
  
It took another 50 centons before Apollo and Boomer were able to exit, though; they first had to spend time in the decon/decompression chamber that linked the shielding wall with the rest of Beta Bay. Finally, after normal pressure had been restored and decontamination procedures completed, the captain and lieutenant stepped out of the chamber. In front of them stood a small group with expectant faces: Adama, Tigh, Athena, Dr. Wilker, two assistants, and six Council guards, including Sergeant Reese, who was the second-in-command of security.  
  
Apollo locked eyes with his father, after a quick sweep of who all was waiting. "It's beautiful," he whispered, Alike an ancient sailing ship." Apollo let his gaze slide to Athena. Her smile expressed that she understood; she knew her brother was fascinated with the history of the Colonies' astronautical, aeronautical, and even plain nautical technologies, anything that could sail or fly.  
  
"So what's next?" Boomer asked, feeling and savoring the excitement and anticipation, like a child the night before his natal day celebration. "When can we get a closer look?"  
  
"We're all going to have to be patient," Adama said. "First, to avoid runaway rumors, I've placed strict security restrictions on the Beta Bay and issued a non-communication order to all who know about this. As for everyone else, the reasons for the restrictions will be that Dr. Wilker is performing delicate experiments. The bay will be off-limits."  
  
  
Apollo surveyed the group again, feeling the euphoria fading somewhat. He noticed the armed security guards and felt a sense of flashback as he remembered how the warriors and Council security had clashed during the Lunar Seven incident.  
  
"There won't be any conflicts, this time," Adama said, following his son's gaze. As per established guidelines, The Council has deferred all decisions to me. We're going to keep this efficient and professional."  
  
Apollo still looked skeptical as he asked, "How long will the decon take? And what's the next step?"  
  
"Well, due to the volume of the bay, decon procedures will take at least 15 centars," Adama said. "In the meanwhile, Dr. Wilker and his team will conduct all of the remote analyses that they can and devise a way to restore the proper shielding on the generators. Also, they're going to recommend the best way to reestablish normal gravity without damaging the craft. Once we've sealed the radiation leak, determined it to be safe, and have the appropriate environment, we'll all be able to get a closer look. But that probably won't be for at least 18 centars." Adama smiled at the disappointment on the two warriors' faces. "As I said, we're going to have to be patient. Now, why don't you two, and you," Adama turned to his daughter, whose shift had ended centars earlier, "get some rest."  
  
"Aye, aye, Commander," Athena smiled and motioned for Boomer and her brother to follow her. With a sigh, Apollo decided that there was nothing more that he could do, at the moment. Nodding to the commander, he went with Athena and Boomer towards the turbolift. At the same time, Wilker and his two assistants immediately began organizing their equipment, leaving the commander and Colonel Tigh with the security group.  
  
"You are to monitor the bay continuously," Adama explained, "Colonel Tigh has assigned you to rotating shifts, in pairs, beginning now." He crossed his arms and gazed at the six men in front of him. "I am confident that you will keep this matter in the strictest confidence. I foresee no problems, but should any unauthorized persons enter the bay, please direct them back out and inform Colonel Tigh. Understood?"  
  
"Yes, sir." The men nodded.   
  
Adama watched as Tigh pulled out his duty roster and read the assignments. Then the commander turned towards the confinement wall. Dr. Wilker and his team were busy setting up monitors and a variety of equipment which could operate based off of visual data. The wall had three observation panels, and the commander gazed through one of them. The probe still floated above the viper, drifting almost imperceptibly now. The large dish pointed towards them. Adama stared at it, mesmerized, wondering about its origin and what all it had experienced on its, undoubtedly, long, long voyage. And he reflected on all that had happened to his people in the past yahren, the Great Destruction, the Exodus, the fight for survival, the differences between what they had once known and what life was like for everyone now. The vast majority of contacts that they had made with other people had been with those who had fled the Twelve Colonies. Even the people of Terra had had records of voyagers settling in their star system. But what of this probe's home? Was it of alien or of human origin? As he gazed at it, an odd, inexplicable sensation of tranquility seem to wash over him, an almost forgotten feeling. Hope.  
  
****************  
  
Cassie stared at the bottom of the upper bunk, waiting, wondering, too tense to sleep. She knew that Starbuck had not returned to Blue Squadron's billet before curfew at 0000. She knew, because she had created a story to tell the other pilots about why she was looking for him at that centar. Her bold, late-night inquiry had been met with blank looks. They had not seen him all evening. She had apologized, thanked them, and walked slowly back to her quarters. She had written a message to Chameleon, but it would not be sent until 0600 in the morning. She would have to wait. And wonder. Where was he?  
  
*******************  
  
"Figures. Colonel Tigh *would* put me on the first shift. Didn't bother to check to see who'd already *been* on duty. They're all the same!" Sergeant Reese sat down on the crate that he had found and leaned against the support column.  
  
"What do you mean?" Corporal Stokard looked at his partner as he paced back and forth. Stokard had been a Council Security guard for about five sectars now, and, for the most part, liked his duties. He had considered entering the Colonial Service, but the thought of trying to fly even a shuttle craft made his stomach lurch. Before the Destruction, he had been a law enforcement officer, so he figured that security guard would be close to his previous occupation, and probably safer; one of the small, small benefits of their current refugee status was the reduction of almost all crimes down to practically zero. Hardly a fair trade off, though, he reflected.  
  
From the day he had enlisted as a cadet trainee in the Council Security Force, he had heard tales of the conflicts between the guards and the Colonial warriors. In most of the stories, the name of "Reese" almost always came up. That he despised the warriors was common knowledge. Rumors as to *why* were numerous, and several were quite credible, but in Stokard's mind, none fully explained the intensity of his negative feelings. Was there some major, unknown reason, or had all of the little incidents just warped the man's point of view? Or was his mind just warped, Stokard wondered, grinning to himself. At any rate, he would probably regret probing Reese for further information, but it was just his nature to be curious, morbidly curious, at times, even.  
  
"Frakkin' warriors!" Reese growled. "I should be curled up in my bunk. Instead, I'm stuck watching a piece of space debris that's locked behind a containment wall, anyway!"  
  
"I heard the commander say that that probe is not Cylon technology."  
  
"Who cares?" Reese was in a particularly foul mood, even for him. "It's just a satellite, or something. No life forms. It's hardly worth all of this 'top secret' security."  
  
"Um, did I hear that there was a big game going on tonight?" Stokard actually had not heard anything, but decided to take a guess at why Reese was so irritated.  
  
"Maybe . . ." Reese admitted, his frown deepening.  
  
Bingo, thought Stokard. So that's it. He had heard several tales about Reese and pyramid games, one of which, he suspected, had probably done a lot to fuel the man's dislike of Colonial warriors, and of one in particular -- Lieutenant Starbuck. The "event" had taken place shortly after the Exodus began, or so the story went. A group of security guards and warriors were playing a game in the Galactica's OC. At first, Lieutenant Starbuck had been soundly beating everyone, security guard and warrior, alike. Then the tide had seemed to turn, with Reese winning a streak of four consecutive hands. Until the lieutenant had figured out that Reese was cheating. Instead of getting angry and revealing it immediately, though, Starbuck had craftily used the knowledge to gain the advantage back. As Reese had grown more and more frustrated, Starbuck had finally backed Reese into a corner where he had to openly admit that he was cheating, something more embarrassing and degrading than just having the lieutenant accuse him of deceitful sportsmanship, which he could have denied.  
  
"Ah, well," Stokard said, "look at it this way. By working a double shift, you'll earn overtime and have even more cubits to gamble away next time."  
  
  
Reese scowled but said nothing further. Instead, he crossed his arms and closed his eyes. Stokard decided that that little bit of information had satisfied his curiosity. Sliding over another crate, he sat down, facing towards the turbolift and away from his partner. Reese was not the only security guard who felt resentment or -- what was it, really? Jealousy? -- towards the Colonial warriors, primarily because many of the guards had been in the academy, but had not made the grade as warriors. So whether it was true or not, some thought that the pilots, especially, looked down on them.  
  
But for some reason, the animosity ran deeper with Reese. The card game incident may have been the catalyst, but Stokard knew, also, that the debacle with the Lunar Seven visitors had certainly exacerbated the resentment. Then, Reese had been made to seem responsible for the unauthorized launch of the Lunar Seven space ship, when he had had no actual idea of what had been happening. The truth had eventually been deciphered, but not before he had appeared the fool in front of the Council of Twelve. Both Lieutenant Starbuck and Captain Apollo had been involved in that one, and the fact that they were admired heroes by most people in the Fleet only heightened Reese's anger and bitterness.  
  
Stokard sighed. It was all so tiresome. The pettiness was annoying. He did not care for it or about it. He knew his limitations, admired those who could do the job that the warriors did, and did not complain about his less-than-heroic duties, such as pulling shifts in the prison barge. He was just thankful to have a useful position in the Fleet. Turning to look behind, he watched Dr. Wilker and his assistants working intently with their instruments and scanners. Maybe his partner was not interested in the probe, but Stokard was glad to be one of the few chosen to be involved in this project. He, for one, found the possibilities of this discovery fascinating.  
  
*********************  
Frak. His hand hurt like Hades. Slugging metal walls would do that, Starbuck reflected. Not once. Or twice. But three times. Three times, as hard as he could, before the pain had finally penetrated his rage. And brought him back to reality. A reality that he was struggling to understand, to make some sense out of. It still felt like one of his nightmares, though. And he was so tired now, so tired. He sank down to the floor, back against the cold steel of the wall, not remembering why he had come here. Why here? Legs pulled up, he wrapped his arms over his knees and put his head down, too exhausted to know what to do next. Or to really care.  
  
After what Chameleon had been trying to tell him had burst through his mind, like an exploding missile, he had stormed out and just walked, rapidly, away from all people, to the lower levels and the triad courts, deserted now because they closed at 2000 on non-competition evenings. One thought had held him at that point -- to get the Hades away from everyone before he totally lost it. And he had felt it coming. The furor was so intense, so consuming, that he was not going to be able to stop it this time. He just wanted to run, to escape.   
  
Breathing in deep, ragged breaths, he had burst through the entrance to the triad court and had let go. Just let go. Yelling, screaming, cursing. Sobbing. And finally slamming his fist against the unforgiving wall. The pain had smothered the fury by the third strike, and he had stopped, pressed his back against the side of the court, and just stood for the longest time, trying desperately not to think, trying to shut out the jumble of thoughts, images, feelings that were still churning beneath the surface. Instead, he had concentrated on the throbbing, knifelike sensations in his right hand. And intently avoided dealing with what he had just learned.  
  
Eventually, a sliver of rational thought had crept through. Time. What time was it? He could not stay on the Rising Star or in the triad court forever. He had to get back to the Galactica. And then what? He would worry about that later. For now, he just did not need the extra hassle of being stranded on this ship. The last shuttle back to the Galactica left at 2350. It was 2330. Taking several deep breaths, he pulled himself away from the wall and had gone to the docking lounge. It had crossed his mind that Chameleon might be there, as well, waiting for him. He could not face him at that moment. He shut out the thought.  
  
  
To his intense relief, Chameleon had not been in the docking lounge. Nor had anyone else he knew. One small blessing. . . He had been able to maintain a relative stalemate with himself for the 15-centon ride. Outward calm, managed through slow, even breaths, and focusing on listening to the chatter of the two women who sat near him. That and the constant throbbing in his hand, punctuated by sharp, acute pain whenever he moved it. Beneath the surface, though, the turmoil still boiled.  
  
Occasionally, as his mind had drifted from the shear exhaustive effort of deliberately shutting off his emotions and had started to lapse into sleep, chaotic thoughts had slipped through, visions really, images. Captain Connley's face, filled with pure hatred, as he pointed the laser at his head. The crazed lunatic, Sherok, ready to poison him as he lay paralyzed with the back spasms. Apollo glaring at him as he, himself, could not stop the angry, frustrated words only the night before, after the triad game. No control. Out of control. And just when he finally felt like he was getting a handle on it all. Chameleon. He could not fathom the words yet, only the deep, piercing feeling of betrayal, knowing that the man had been lying to him. No! Stop! He would not give in again. He was in control.  
  
His head had snapped up as he realized that he had been dozing. His hand, which was tucked inside his flight jacket, out of sight of curious eyes, slipped, and the sudden movement sent a shooting pain up through his arm. He was awake now. He concentrated on holding the injured hand as still as possible and breathed through the intense but fading ache.  
  
When the shuttle had landed in Alpha Bay, aboard the Galactica, he had exited and then stopped. Where now? Where? He could still feel the awful, overwhelming sensations threatening to erupt again, so he just walked, letting his feet carry him as he concentrated on forgetting everything. Everything. Everything was all muddled together now: the insanity of both Connly and Sherok, the helplessness that had almost turned to hopelessness in so many of his nightmares, and the shock, the slap in the face from someone who now claimed to be his father. If he was his father, why did he lie to him? Deny it? God, what was happening to him? He felt his control slipping yet again, and that, more than anything else, terrified him.  
  
He had stopped, finally, when he realized where his subconscious had taken him. To Delta Deck, next to the Electronics Lab. To Copernicus's door. Hades, what was he doing here?   
  
Starbuck lifted his head to stare at his blood-stained, swollen, discolored hand. It throbbed and ached, and he could barely move his fingers. Not without excruciating pain, at least. Cracked a few knuckles, and more, he mused, not really caring. Could go to the lifestation and get it taken care of. What would Cassie say -  
  
He had the sudden sensation that the floor had been pulled out from underneath him. Oh, my God, he thought. Cassie. Cassie's known all along. She did the tests. She's known. So who else, except me, knows about this?   
  
"Shit!" This was too much. Too much. His head was reeling now. He was beyond exhaustion and beyond dealing with any of this. Eleven nights with almost no sleep, filled with dreams that mocked his self-confidence, his faith that he was strong enough to handle anything. . . He inhaled, gasps, really, eyes squeezed shut. No. He would not let go. He. Would. Not. Lose. Control. Again.  
  
The door whooshed open. Starbuck jumped, startled, and looked up to find  
Copernicus staring down at him. For several microns, the lieutenant did not know if he were awake or dreaming. All other thoughts relented as he concentrated on figuring out just which side of reality he was on at the moment.  
  
"Come in," Copernicus said. "Come in. Come in." He backed into his tiny   
compartment, still staring at the lieutenant.  
  
Feeling like he was running on autopilot, Starbuck climbed slowly to his  
feet and followed Copernicus through the door. Once inside, he stood and watched his friend. Copernicus looked uncertain and glanced away awkwardly, lost as to what he should do next, it seemed. Starbuck, feeling drained, detached, and numb -- oh, so numb -- now, gazed at him, waiting, as if he were watching some drama unfold on an IFB vidshow, or letting a dream play out.  
  
Copernicus finally seemed to reach some decision. Moving more purposefully, he went to his shelf and pulled out a small disk. Pulling his music device down off the shelf, as well, he inserted the disk and held out the invention towards the lieutenant. When Starbuck did not move, Copernicus thrust the device out again in his direction, insistently, and inched forward, not making direct eye contact. The quickness of his movements, little head jerks, deep breaths, reflected his growing tenseness and the effort his actions were costing him. Finally, he shoved the device at Starbuck and let go.   
  
Instinctively, the lieutenant grabbed at it before it could fall, fumbling, catching it in his left hand. All at once, loud strands of music emanated from the device; somehow, Copernicus had activated it before letting go. The man had retreated back to his bed, in the back corner and now stared at Starbuck again. As the sounds of strings and wind instruments filled the compartment, starting out softly, then swelling to a crescendo, Copernicus broke into a broad smile and closed his eyes. His previous tension had dissipated, and he seemed to melt into the music, swaying and moving with the beat, oblivious now of his guest.  
  
The volume was so loud that Starbuck could feel the base tones vibrating in his chest, but he did not know how to turn it down or off. And he did not want to, he realized. The symphonic piece was slowly enveloping him. With a sense of surrender, he simply sat down where he was, in front of the door, and put the music device down. He closed his own eyes, letting the melodic sounds, so vibrant and full of life, wrap around him. Slowly, slowly, he could feel himself relaxing, the tempest of his emotions abating. The effect of the composition, so loud yet entrancing, was hypnotic, almost. As the music washed over him and through him, it broke through his defenses, as well. He did not think, but he felt. Felt both the physical and psychological pain. And he let go once more, quietly, though, this time, no rage, just release.  
  
Copernicus, lost in his own world and thoughts, did not notice the tears or hear the sobs that gently shook the lieutenant's body.   
  



	8. Chapter Nine

Chapter NINE  
  
Apollo could not sleep. He had returned to his quarters shortly  
after 0100 and stretched out on his bed, hoping to relax. He tried to  
focus on his breathing, on letting his body go limp, on clearing his  
mind of everything. But as he lay quietly, hearing the soft sounds of  
Boxey, who was sleeping in the bunk above him, his mind insisted on  
running through the scenes from the patrol. The images kept playing and  
replaying in his head. Like when Boxey had on one of his favorite vids  
and would repeatedly watch his favorite part, the view he had had of the  
probe, as they had approached and circled it, dominated his thoughts.  
  
The craft had been beautiful to him, beautiful. So simple and  
primitive in its technology, yet so graceful as it floated through the  
universe. A solitary probe sent out to explore the heavens. It had long  
ago lost contact with its mother world, yet it continued onward. As  
Apollo pictured the craft, a verse floated through his mind:  
  
"In the middle of the endless night of lonely quest, prepare  
for celebration amidst the wars. Communion in Space. The ambrosa shall  
overflow in the chalice. The Messenger shall arrive for Renewed  
Covenant."   
  
Yes, he reflected, the passage captured how he felt. After so  
many sectars of running from and fighting against the Cylons, this  
little craft was a beacon of hope to him. A reason to rejoice. It  
represented the wonders that awaited them far out in the universe. The  
Messenger. . . The Silver Bride. . .  
  
Sheba, he reflected with a smile, as his thoughts shifted again,  
would want to see the probe. He felt an impatience to tell her, to  
share the wonder. Even Boomer had shared the amazement this craft had  
evoked. And Starbuck - an indefinable sensation brought his mind to a  
standstill. He had not spoken to the lieutenant since the incident on  
the bridge with Copernicus, when, once again, he had left his friend in  
a troubled state. He hoped that the evening with Chameleon had served  
to help ease some of his tensions. Still, he could not shake the uneasy  
sensation.  
  
At last, the effort to remain still was too much. Apollo rolled  
out of the bed and slipped silently into the living area. Next to his  
collection of books was the computer terminal. Dropping into the chair,  
Apollo quickly accessed the Galactica's library files, and typed in  
several key words. Moments later, the titles of numerous files scrolled  
up the screen. The captain scanned them, not really looking for  
anything in particular, but just wondering what he would find. There!   
A visual record of the space probes from the Colonies between the yahren  
3000-3500. That sounded like a good starting point.  
  
Tap, tap, tap.  
  
It took Apollo several microns to realize that someone was  
knocking on his door. Puzzled, he walked over and pressed the release  
mechanism. The door whooshed open to reveal Sheba, who looked slightly  
nervous and embarrassed. "I, uh, was wondering if you were still  
awake," she said, glancing away.  
  
"Aren't you breaking curfew, Lieutenant?" Apollo gave her a stern  
look. He could not help himself; he still felt so giddy from their  
discovery.  
  
"Uh, well, I thought . . ." Sheba looked taken aback.   
  
"We've got strict regulations for a reason. How can I maintain  
the discipline if I let everyone just pick the rules they want to   
follow?"   
  
Sheba just stared at him for a moment. Then she noticed the side  
of his mouth twitching as he unsuccessfully tried to keep from smiling.   
Narrowing her eyes, Sheba crossed her arms and said, "Okay, so report  
me, Captain."  
  
"I think ---"  
  
"Oh, that's enough!" Sheba walked past him into his quarters and  
plopped down on the sofa.  
  
Apollo closed the door and turned to face his visitor. "Do come  
in," he said, smiling, at last. When his eyes locked with hers, though,  
he saw that the hesitancy had returned. She looked away again. Apollo  
simply gazed for a moment at the woman with whom he had shared the most  
miraculous of nights just the previous evening. Again, he felt  
amazement at how she shifted between daring, brash warrior and tender,  
innocent young woman. That contrasting blend. Yes, she was special,  
and she had captured his heart and soul.   
  
"I, uh, just wanted to talk," she said finally.   
  
"Yeah, I guess we should." Apollo quietly sat down next to her.  
Part of their night together was hazy, like a dream; part of it was as  
vivid as a crystal clear Caprican day.   
  
For several centons, neither said anything. Sheba stared down at  
her hands, at her fingers, her mind searching for a place to start.   
After so much time spent vacillating between confidence and self-doubt,  
wondering how the captain felt, if she could ever compete with the ghost  
of Serina, she could not yet assimilate what had happened the previous  
night. Too much, she feared, had been clouded --- induced?--- by the  
ambrosa. A day later, she thought she knew what had happened, but she  
could not truly accept it, or believe it, until she heard the words  
again, from Apollo, with a clear mind. Too much still felt like a  
dream.  
  
The captain gazed at Sheba's profile, and he could see the  
conflict playing across her features as she frowned, bit her lower lip,  
and stared, without seeing, at her hands. He waited, not wanting to  
rush her, giving her time to think, something he was sure that she had  
not been able to do during the hectic centars on duty. He could well  
imagine her laying down in her bunk, alone, finally, and being bombarded  
by the sensations, thoughts, and questions that she had held at bay  
throughout the day, until she could stand it no more. He understood why  
she would feel uncertain, doubtful, even afraid, because a large part of  
their experience together was nebulous for him, as well.  
  
But unlike Sheba, Apollo now *knew* how he felt. While the  
incredible journey that they had shared wove in and out between vivid  
clarity and a realm beyond words and rational, conscious thought, the  
Light that had filled his soul also illuminated his heart. He knew. He  
loved Sheba. Completely. They were irrevocably connected and had been  
since their experience on board the Ship of Lights.   
  
"Did what I think happen . . . really happen last night?" she  
asked finally, still staring in front of her.  
  
"Yes, Sheba." Apollo put a gentle hand under her chin and turned  
her face towards him, to gaze into her eyes. "I love you. I know that  
now. And this love comes from the very essence of my being. My dear,"   
He grinned at her, "you couldn't get rid of me, even if you tried."  
Sheba finally seemed to relax, to trust, at least tentatively, her  
own feelings. A smile spread over her lips. "So I didn't just dream it  
all last night?"  
  
"No. . ." Apollo was gazing at her liquid eyes, so earnest and  
beseeching, still hesitant. Still afraid to believe. "I promise." He  
leaned in, and they kissed, a slow, enveloping kiss that pushed aside  
those remaining doubts, like the sun bursting through the dark storm  
clouds.   
  
Sheba took a deep, deep breath when they eventually pulled apart  
and finally gave an unrestrained smile. Testing her own confidence, she  
put on a feigned pout and said, "Took you long enough!"  
  
Apollo laughed. He wanted, needed her to feel at ease. He wrapped  
his arms around her and pulled her close, holding her tight, just  
feeling her warmth, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair as he  
leaned his chin on her head. He felt complete. For the longest time,  
they held the embrace, just savoring the sensations, enraptured by the  
moment. Eventually, it was Sheba who pulled back. "Um, what about the  
regulations? Captain."   
  
Apollo sighed. No, a relationship would not be simple; actually,  
it would be quite complicated. "Well, we probably need to talk to my  
father about this. While fraternizing with a superior officer isn't  
prohibited, it's certainly discouraged. Or was. Those are pre-  
Destruction rules. Nothing has been "normal" since we took to the  
stars."  
  
"Look," Sheba said, showing her old sense of confidence, finally.   
"I've always known that if you ever--" She jabbed him in the ribs, "--  
admitted that you loved me, that we'd have to be sure to maintain  
professional behavior when on duty. Will that be a problem for you?"  
  
"No, not unless . . ." His voice trailed off, and he frowned.  
  
"Unless what?"  
  
He took another deep breath and stood up. "I won't lie to you,"   
he said, starting to pace. "There's a part of me that will have a very  
difficult time letting you do your job and take part in risky missions.   
But --" He stopped, looked at her, and smiled at the disapproval that was  
creeping across her face, "I'll deal with it, okay? You are a warrior.   
I know that. And I wouldn't change one thing about you!"   
  
"Are you trying to convince me or yourself" She asked, still  
frowning.  
  
"Both," Apollo admitted. He paced a few more steps, then stopped,  
grinning with what Sheba could only call a mischievous smile. "Look, we  
can worry about that later. But since we're already breaking  
regulations, let me break one more."  
  
Sheba gave him a quizzical look.  
  
"You remember that signal that Boomer and I were sent to  
investigate?" Apollo sat back down beside her. He looked like a ten-  
yahren-old who had been asked to keep a secret and now was bursting to  
let it out.   
  
"Yes," Sheba nodded, feeling like she was stating the obvious. Of  
course she remembered why he had been sent out on patrol!  
  
"Okay, technically, the commander has issued a security screen on  
this, but since you already knew about the signal, I don't think I'll  
get into trouble if I tell you--"  
  
"What? For Sagan's sake!" Sheba rolled her eyes in exasperation.  
  
"We found a probe. A probe that's not Cylon, but from some other  
civilization, somewhere else in the universe."  
  
Sheba stared for a moment, absorbing the information. "Where's it  
from?" she asked at last.   
  
Her eyes were shining; Apollo could tell that she found the news  
intriguing, that she would share his excitement. Before he began to  
describe what all they knew, the captain had to treasure the perfection  
of the moment; as he gazed upon her ardent expression, he felt  
enshrouded by the love and the hope, together. Perfection.  
  
******************  
  
The music had ended awhile ago. Starbuck took a deep breath and  
exhaled slowly but did not move. He felt drained, utterly, totally  
drained. Unable to feel, just numb, running on autopilot. He stared at  
Copernicus, sitting on the edge of his bed, eyes still closed. But he  
was not asleep. His lips were moving. His mind was working on  
something, apparently. All at once, Copernicus opened his eyes and  
looked across at the lieutenant, his gaze intent and penetrating,  
unblinking. Then he slowly climbed to his feet and walked over towards  
Starbuck. When he was within a metron, he sat down, legs crossed, eyes  
averted once more.  
  
Starbuck, still breathing slowly, made no move. Copernicus darted  
a glance at him, then said, "Better. You feel better. Better."  
  
Not a question, but a statement. Starbuck thought about it, in a  
detached way, like running a maintenance scan. To his surprise, he  
*did* feel better, at least a little bit. He no longer felt the rage  
hammering at him. But what would happen when the numbness wore off?   
  
"Better. You feel better." Copernicus persisted.  
  
"Yeah, I do," Starbuck said.   
  
Copernicus was silent for several more centons. Starbuck could  
tell, though, that he had something on his mind, and he was trying to  
formulate the correct words. The lieutenant waited, passively, still  
unwilling and unready to move. Eventually, Copernicus stole several  
glances at him and said, "Viper. I need to see a viper."  
  
Starbuck stared at him, the words not registering.  
  
"Viper. I need to see a viper. A viper." he repeated.   
  
"You what?" Starbuck asked, the words finally penetrating.  
  
"I need to see a viper."  
  
"But what for?"   
  
Copernicus closed his eyes and rocked slightly, concentrating  
again. Finally, he said, "Engines. The engine design." After another  
pause, he added, "Fuel system."  
  
"But you've got all of the schematics you could possibly need in  
the computer, don't you?" Starbuck had no desire to move yet.  
  
"But I need to *see* it. To *see* it," he said, an insistent edge  
creeping into his voice. "I need to *see* a viper."  
  
Starbuck glanced at his chronometer. 0360. The bays would be  
quiet, he supposed, but the thought of giving a guided tour, at the  
moment, felt beyond his energy level. He really ought to get some  
sleep. Lords, he was supposed to report for duty in less than four  
centars. He looked down at his battered hand, which seemed as numb as  
the rest of him, for now. Yeah, report for duty. . . "Copernicus, I  
don't think --"  
  
"Please. I need to *see* a viper. Please." His face was looking  
more earnest. The man was not about to give up. No, not once he had  
fixated on something. Tarnia called it "perseveration." Once he  
decided he needed something, that object or idea became a fixed  
obsession, an overwhelming need, almost. Like a viper locked on target,  
his mind would focus on that one point until the desire was somehow  
satisfied.  
  
"Maybe later? I --"  
  
"Please. I need to *see* a viper. Please. Please." His voice  
was rising in pitch.   
  
"But the computer can show you everything, every detail --"  
  
"No. A viper. A real viper." He was getting agitated now.  
  
Starbuck let out a slow breath. He could not think of a way  
around this. "Why is this so important?"  
  
"I need to see the, the, design. The feel. The, the interface of  
the systems." Copernicus paused, then launched into a technical  
description that sounded like it might have been from the maintenance  
manual for vipers, at first, anyway. Then the information stream seemed  
to change to -- what? Starbuck had no idea. He caught the words  
"modified propulsion system" but even in the right frame of mind, he  
would not have understood what the man was talking about.  
  
"All right. All right!" Starbuck could think of no alternative  
that would satisfy Copernicus. And he was too tired to argue any  
further. Besides, he figured, he would not have to actually *do*  
anything, once the man got to examine a viper. What else did he have  
planned, anyway? Go back to the billet? Go to the lifestation to get  
his hand mended? And then explain how it had happened? No. He felt the  
jumble of emotions awakening and decided he was not ready to deal with  
them yet. Maybe this was as good of a distraction as any.  
  
Copernicus stopped, stared at the lieutenant, then broke out into  
a grin.  
  
"Fine," Starbuck said, "we'll go to where they do most of the  
maintenance. Beta Bay."  
  
*************  
"Apollo, it's beautiful!" Sheba was staring at an image of the  
probe that the captain had pulled from the Galactica's scan records.   
Using his identity code, he had been able to access all the information  
that he and Boomer had provided while on patrol. With the touch of a  
key, the image rotated slowly around, giving a complete view of the  
probe. Sheba and Apollo watched in silence for several moments. The  
captain noted that this visual matched the one that kept playing through  
his head, the view that he and Boomer had had as they circled the craft  
for the first time. For a moment, he thought he recognized the  
configuration from some place else, but he could not remember the  
source.  
  
"I thought you might like it." Apollo felt a warm, satisfied  
glow. She did appreciate it. She did; she shared his wonderment at the  
unknown probe. He almost felt overwhelmed by these new sensations, the  
euphoria of love unleashed, the anticipation of the discoveries that lay  
ahead. He could not help himself. He leaned in over Sheba's shoulder,  
feeling the soft strands of her hair brush across his face, the smooth  
warmth of her cheek. He kissed her ear, her neck, savoring the scent of  
her skin. His hands slid over her shoulders, down her arms, and across  
her chest, her stomach. Lords, it had been so long since he had felt  
the intensity of emotions like these.  
  
"Apollo!" Sheba wriggled, awkward at first, but then let her own  
hands grasp his and pulled his arms into an embrace. Apollo's lips  
against her neck, her ear, the side of her face, were so intoxicating.  
For how many nights, alone in her bunk, had she dreamed of a moment like  
this one? The reality was far more captivating than her dreams, her  
fantasies, had ever been, because they had always been tempered by the  
cold, stark knowledge that the captain might never return her love. But  
not now. Dreams had become reality. She had no reason to hold back.   
"Apollo. . ."  
  
*****************  
Stokard peered through one of the observation windows at the  
probe, careful not to get in Dr. Wilker's way. The scientist had  
glowered at him a couple of times already, but had said nothing. It  
appeared that the scientist had run all of the remote tests that he  
could, because the team was packing up some of their instruments. He  
had heard the doctor say something about needing to get closer in order  
to find out anything else. But they still had over ten centars until  
the decon procedures were completed, Stokard knew. Wilker looked  
impatient and unhappy about the wait. Stokard wondered if the scientist  
was annoyed because the commander had ruled against letting the them use  
decontamination suits to approach the craft any sooner. Why, he did not  
know.  
  
Reese was still sitting, slouched, on the crate, half awake,  
probably. Stokard had given up trying to start any conversations with  
him. He seemed to be enjoying his foul mood and his disposition had not  
improved. He had been alternating between dozing and complaining about  
everything while he tossed his laser from hand to hand. A real cheery  
group, Stokard reflected. He would be glad when their shift ended in  
about two centars.  
  
Stokard noticed the sound of the turbolift several microns before  
Reese did. Wondering who was awake and wandering around at this centar,  
he walked towards the lift. As the ascensor lowered into view, Stokard  
recognized lieutenant Starbuck with someone who appeared to be a  
civilian, older, a bit peculiar in the way he tilted his head. Odd, he  
thought to himself. And even if the lieutenant had clearance for the  
restricted area, he was sure that a civilian did not. The warrior was  
frowning at him, looking puzzled, as the lift came to a stop.   
  
Stokard was about to approach them when a hand on his shoulder  
pulled him back. "I'll handle this," growled Reese. "You just wait  
here."  
  
"I'm not sure that's a good idea." Stokard did not like his  
partner's tone of voice.   
  
"That's an order, *Corporal.*" Reese turned to glare at him, then  
moved quickly forward. Stokard noticed he was still holding his laser  
pistol, tossing it from hand to hand. After a brief pause, he followed  
behind anyway.  
  
**********  
Starbuck stopped at the sight of the two security guards walking  
towards them. *Oh, frak!,* he thought. He did not need this. As if to  
provide accompaniment for his throbbing hand, a dull headache had begun  
thumping in his temples as he and Copernicus had made their way to Beta  
Bay. He had been hoping to just sit and close his eyes, while his friend  
examined the viper. He turned to Copernicus. "Wait here," he said with  
a sigh.  
  
It was then he noticed that the guard in front was Reese. By the  
look of the smirk on his face, this was not going to be pleasant.   
Starbuck stopped and took a deep breath, just staring impassively at the  
security guard.  
  
"What are you doing here?" Reese's words echoed through the  
landing bay. "This is a restricted area."  
  
"Since when?" Starbuck noted Reese's cocky stance and the way he  
played with his laser after he had stopped within half a metron of the  
warrior.  
  
"You and your friend need to leave." Reese said, loudly.   
  
The reverberation of his voice pounded in the lieutenant's head;  
he wondered what it was doing to Copernicus, but he did not want to take  
his attention off of the security guard. Already, Starbuck could feel  
the annoyance building. He knew Reese was goading him, but he was  
determined to stay calm. He kept his own tone low and even. "What's  
going on here?"  
  
"I said. . ." Reese moved closer, now barely an arm's length away  
from the warrior. "This is a restricted area. You need to leave."   
  
"Reese, I just want to understand what's going on --"  
  
"Well, if you don't know, then I don't need to tell you anything.  
Now leave." He emphasized his words by trying to prod at Starbuck with  
the pistol.  
  
Fighting the urge to shove in return, Starbuck, instead, took a  
quick step back and turned out of Reese's path. The laser just barely  
brushed his tunic. Reese stumbled forward, and his face turned red.   
Before he could say anything, though, Stokard grabbed his arm and  
snapped, "Reese, that's enough! Put that gun away, and just tell them  
what the commander said --"  
  
The guard jerked his arm free. "I said I'd handle this! Now get  
out of the way!" he yelled at his partner.  
  
Starbuck used the distraction to glance behind him. Copernicus was  
standing, slouched, hands over his ears, looking very tense. No, it was  
not worth upsetting his friend any further by continuing this pointless  
discussion. It was obvious that Reese was not about to tell him anything  
useful. Better to get Copernicus away from the noise and this annoyance  
of a security guard. He turned to let Reese know that they intended to  
go.   
  
"Which part of leave' don't you understand?" Reese was  
centimetrons from the lieutenant.  
  
Despite his resolve to stay calm, the feel of his hot breath was  
just too much. He pushed him away and snapped, "We're going! Now get  
out of my face!"  
  
Reese grabbed his arm and growled, "Just give me a reason to use  
this!" He jabbed at Starbuck with the laser again, then pushed him  
backwards as he let go of his arm.  
  
Only the stabbing pain in his injured hand, as he jarred it  
against his thigh, stopped him from punching Reese; he was hanging on to  
his temper by a thread. Taking a deep breath, Starbuck turned to  
Copernicus. The moment he saw his friend's face, however, he knew that  
it was too late. Copernicus's eyes had grown wide. Starbuck sensed the  
meltdown a micron before the man dropped to the floor and broke into an  
ear-piercing scream.  
  
"What the frak?" Reese yelled above the din. He aimed the pistol  
in Copernicus's direction and started towards him. "Who in Hades is the  
lunatic?"  
  
"No! Don't you touch him!" A panicked fear that Reese might hurt  
Copernicus obliterated all rational thought. Starbuck tackled the guard  
as he moved past him. Reese tumbled down, with the lieutenant landing  
on top of him. For a long moment, they wrestled and writhed on the  
floor, adrenaline driving them both and effectively blocking all feeling  
in the lieutenant's hand. Then Reese whacked at the warrior's head with  
the laser, trying to knock him off. Starbuck, furious now, rolled to  
his left, putting as much pressure as he could on the guard's gun arm.   
The laser clattered loose.  
  
Reese used the momentum, though, to end up on top of Starbuck.   
But instead of pulling back, now that he had the advantage, he continued  
to fight, trying to hammer the lieutenant's head with his fist.   
Starbuck ducked, blocked, and fought. The effort was draining. After a  
few centons, Starbuck found himself less and less able to defend  
himself, let alone fight back.  
  
*************  
The moment that Starbuck knocked Reese to the floor, Stokard had  
pulled out his communicator. He could not believe that the situation  
was this absurdly out of control. He shouted unto the small, black  
device to be heard above the shrill screams. "Fight in Beta Bay! Send  
backup!" Then he hurried over to try to find a way to break it up on  
his own. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wilker and his team,  
looking incredulous, staring at the commotion.  
  
***************  
Sheba and Apollo sat on the sofa, arms wrapped around each other,  
silent. As emotions had calmed, they had been quick to straighten up, in  
the event that Boxey should awaken. Now, they were content to simply  
bathe in each other's warmth, treasure the closeness. No words, no  
thoughts, just being together.  
  
Reality intruded long before either was ready. The communicator  
on Apollo's belt beeped. With a long sigh, he disengaged his arms and  
pulled off the device. While mainly used on missions, Apollo, as a  
captain and squadron leader, also carried one with him at all times to  
be easily accessible in the event of an emergency. Thus, Apollo was  
more than just curious as he activated the communicator. Sheba frowned,  
also worried "This is Apollo," he said. "What's up?"  
  
"There's an emergency in Beta Bay --a fight." It was the  
commander's voice. Yes, he would know that his son would want to know  
about anything that might concern the probe. "We don't have any  
details. I'll meet you there. Adama out."  
  
***************  
Stokard stared for a moment as the two struggled, rolled, and  
swung at each other. Then, after his partner rolled back on top, he  
grabbed for his shoulders, trying to pull him back. "Stop! For Sagan's  
sake, stop!" He screamed in his ear.  
  
Reese scowled and shoved Stokard back. The distraction had been  
enough, though, for Starbuck to pull himself clear. He was gasping for  
air, exhausted, even the adrenaline not able to sustain him much longer.   
The pain was intense, especially in his back, as newly healed muscles  
screamed in protest, and his head was pounding now. He tried to scramble  
to his feet, stumbled, and landed on his chest. On top of the laser.   
He grabbed it with his left hand, just as he felt someone grab his arms  
and wrench him upward. He did not have the strength to resist. The  
motion flung him onto his back. Somehow, he still held the laser,  
tightly, aimed haphazardly above him. Gasping, he stared up at Reese.   
The guard was glaring at him, panting, as well. For the moment, neither  
moved.  
  
Stokard, thinking that the ruckus had ended, approached Reese.   
"Back off, okay?" He yelled. He noticed that the screaming had  
stopped. It was quiet, except for the rasping breaths. Then he heard  
the sound of the turbolift.  
  
As the spasms coursed through his back muscles, Starbuck could not  
have moved had he even wanted to. He squeezed the handle of the laser  
in reaction to the pain, not really aware of what he was doing, not  
aware that he had wrapped his finger over the trigger, instinctively,  
out of habit. His eyes were locked with Reese's.   
  
"Give me that!" The security guard, smirking in victory, grabbed  
his gun by the barrel and yanked. Unable to let go, Starbuck felt the  
click of the trigger, as it engaged with the pressure, a millimicron  
before the weapon fired. The shrill shriek of the laser cut through the  
silence. The bright blue beam caught Reese squarely in the chest. He  
tumbled backwards and lay motionless as the laser clattered on the  
floor.  
  
**************  
Apollo and Sheba had met up with the commander and three security  
guards in the turbolift, as it whined slowly down. Adama had given each  
a long look but had said nothing. Apollo wondered briefly if his father  
was noticing the fact that he and Sheba were together in what should  
have been nearly the end of sleep period, or the fact that she was not  
cleared, officially, concerning the probe. Or both. But that could  
wait. Right now, numerous questions occupied his mind. The noise of  
the lift, however, made conversation too difficult, so the captain  
remained silent. Anyway, the commander had said that they did not know  
any details. He would have to wait until they got to the bay to find  
out just what was happening.   
  
The turbolift finally descended to where they could see out into  
the landing bay. They spotted the fight immediately. Apollo, mind  
analyzing the details, noted the two involved: a security guard, Reese,  
who was standing over a Colonial warrior. He had a laser pointed up at  
the guard. The warrior's face was not visible, but everything about him  
was familiar. The sheer implausibility of the situation prevented  
Apollo from immediately making the identification. The lift stopped and  
the group, with the captain in front, hurried off. Then he saw  
Copernicus, who was crouched off to his left, rocking, hands pressed to  
his ears. It finally clicked. "What? Starbuck?" Apollo said.  
  
Apollo heard Reese, who looked winded and angry, say, "Give me  
that!" as he grabbed for the pistol.  
  
And the laser fired.   
  
Apollo froze, in horror and disbelief, as Reese fell backwards and  
the gun dropped to the floor. Sheba clutched at the captain's arm as  
the scene played out. Adama and the three guards rushed forward.  
  
"Oh, my God!" Sheba said, her voice barely above a whisper.  
  
For a long moment, Apollo stood, immobile, unable to move, one  
thought screaming repeatedly in his head. "This can't be happening!"  
  
**************  
The vision was frozen in his mind. Reese, enveloped in the bright  
blue light, falling. Falling. Then darkness, as shock shattered reality.  
  
A hammering barrage of sensations and chaotic images. So familiar,  
so tormenting, over the past eleven nights.   
  
Drowning. Drowning, being pulled beneath the surface as the swells  
rush over the head and the current drags down, down, down. The crushing  
pressure against the chest. Suffocating. . . .  
  
Darkness. And cold, a cold that penetrates to the bone, numbing.   
Trying to move, and a sudden, fierce fire burning through the center of  
the back and radiating out through every nerve. A soundless cry of  
agony. Gasping, gasping. . .  
  
A shape hovers above, a bearded face -- no! It is Connly. Sherok.   
Ortega. Reese. All of them and none. The Human face when reality  
crushes the will to survive and twists the soul into a remorseless  
being. The face smiles, coldly, cruelly, as a laser drifts into view,  
slowly aimed to kill . . . Paralyzed, arms and legs cannot move; eyes  
can only watch, watch in a fascinated, terrified horror as the finger  
slowly presses the trigger. "You will die." The voice is cold, flat,  
mechanical. Human, but not. Gasping, short, panic-filled breaths as  
the heart races. Sweat burns eyes as it slowly trickles down. The mind  
is screaming, "No, no, no, no!" But the words soundlessly choke in the  
throat.  
  
And light explodes as eyes squeeze tightly shut. Breathing stops.   
A deafening silence. A void. . . Then the high-pitched, numbing sound  
of the laser again, at close range, bursts into a blinding flash. Then  
darkness crashes down again.  
  
Another voice. Different. Tense and agitated. "Starbuck, it's  
me! Starbuck! Starbuck!" Startled recognition sparks a shudder. The  
feel of cold metal in a hot, sweaty, shaking palm. Eyes open to see a  
familiar face framed through the sites of the laser pistol as it aims at  
the captain's heart. At Apollo. The lifeline, the anchor. Apollo, no  
. . .! For an instant, the comforting, solacing face blurs into the  
taunting, snarling image of Ortega. Connly. Sherok. Reese.  
Escape! Escape. . . just fire the viper's turbos and be free . . .  
But hands will not. There is nowhere to go, nowhere. "Stay back, or  
I'll fire!" a voice, his own voice, screams. The words echo painfully  
through the mind as eyes gaze in horror at the calm, yet beseeching look  
on Apollo's face. So steady and reassuring. . . Vision freezes on the  
image of his closest friend, the astonished look of disbelief, as the  
finger pulls the trigger. No! Oh, God, no! How could you possibly?   
No, no, no!  
  
And light explodes.  
  
Cold. The ground is cold. And wet. Dewy wet. The smell of damp  
earth. Then the overpowering stench of smoke and burning flesh sears  
the nostrils. Child's eyes open to see a scorched laser pistol, dimly  
visible in the pre-dawn light, the metal twisted and smoldering, lying  
in the cold, dewy grass. Cries, piercing, wailing cries. So many of  
them. Small hands press tightly against ears to shut out the terrifying  
screams. Explosions vibrate through the ground and through the soul.   
  
And the visions repeat, shatter, splinter, hammer in the skull.  
  
The exploding light. The faces. Then darkness.  
  
************  
Apollo, at last, made himself move. With Sheba at his side, he  
rushed over. The commander and the three guards were watching as  
Reese's partner bent over him, feeling for a pulse. Apollo held his  
breath, not daring to look at his friend, yet, but staring at Reese.   
The captain finally saw that the guard's chest was not scorched, the way  
it would have been had the laser been set to kill . . .   
  
"He'll be fine." Stokard stood up.   
  
Of course. Standard procedure had lasers set on stun. Apollo let  
out the breath in a relieved sigh. He heard the commander calling for  
medical assistance. For Tarnia. He heard the commander asking what had  
happened. Yes, what in Kobol's name was going on here? He still did  
not believe what his head told him that he had seen. Reese grabbing the  
laser. Starbuck pulling the trigger.   
  
Starbuck? Apollo and Sheba knelt quickly next to their friend.   
He was still, unconscious, looking deceptively peaceful, but the  
telltale signs of the fight were beginning to show in purple, molten  
patches on his face. Sheba turned to look at Apollo; her face reflected  
the bewilderment that he felt.  



	9. Chapter Ten

Chapter TEN  
  
Adama knew to reserve judgement until he had all of the facts. The visual evidence had told him that one of his best warriors had violated a secured area and shot a security guard, who had been assigned to keep unauthorized people out of the landing bay. For the moment, he put that information aside, on file in his mind, and proceeded to analyze the situation. He, Apollo, Sheba, and Colonel Tigh sat quietly in the lifestation, reading the official reports from Stokard, Dr. Wilker and his team, while the doctor and medtechs, including Cassiopeia, ran scans on the two. Both were still unconscious; although, the effects of Reese's laser stun would be wearing off soon. And Adama wanted to be prepared to confront him about his side of the story.  
  
The commander had informally questioned Stokard in the landing bay, before the medical team had arrived. But once Tarnia had made it there, shortly after the medtechs, Adama had wanted to clear the area as quickly as possible. He had instructed the three security guards to take the observers' official statements and have the reports sent to him in the lifestation. Next, he had told Stokard, Wilker, and the assistants to go get some rest, while two of the other security guards remained on duty. As for the probe, Adama had informed Wilker, much to his disappointment, that further tests would have to wait, for now.  
  
After sending Apollo and Sheba along with the medical team, Adama had approached Tarnia and Copernicus. The two sat on the floor, but the man seemed calm. "How is he?" The commander had asked.  
  
"He's okay," Tarnia answered. She looked around the bay, which was now quiet and almost empty. She chewed her lip for a moment, then looked back at Adama. "Commander, I'm sorry. . ."  
  
"Don't be," Adama stated firmly. "First of all, we don't know what all happened here. But we do know that Copernicus was here with Lieutenant Starbuck. As for the bridge incident," he gave her a soft smile, "that's how we learn. From our mistakes."  
  
"Thank you," Tarnia said softly, touched by Adama's understanding and kindness. "Thank you." She stood up and helped her friend to his feet. "Um, Commander?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Copernicus told me bits and pieces of what happened. And why. I think, once we get back to his room, that we'll be able to prepare a statement for you."  
  
"I would greatly appreciate that." Adama looked thoughtful for a moment. "He might be able to give us just the perspective we need to understand what happened here. Oh, and when you finish," he said, his mind still reflecting on the events, "could you report to the lifestation? I think I know someone else who needs to talk to you."  
  
Tarnia just nodded, her face somber. They had all left the landing bay. Adama had glanced back at the containment wall as he had boarded the lift. How quickly, he mused, had the excitement and hope stirred by the probe been tempered by the stark reality of their situation; a entire race of people, refugees, trying to hold onto their sanity until a new home could be found.  
  
Once in the lifestation, Adama had called for Colonel Tigh. And at Apollo's urging, he had alerted Cassiopeia. Both had arrived at almost the same time. Cassie had looked tired and troubled; Adama wondered what she knew, if anything, that might shed some light on why the lieutenant and Copernicus had been roaming around in the middle of sleep period.  
  
"Starbuck got into a fight with Reese," Apollo had told both the colonel and Cassie. "And Reese was shot by his own laser, on stun."  
  
Cassie had closed her eyes and inhaled, before donning her professional demeanor to go and assist the doctor, without a word. Tigh had frowned deeply, looked over to where both men were being examined, before asking for the details. Adama, Apollo, and Sheba had still been explaining what they knew when security had called to indicate that the official reports were ready and had been downloaded into the computer. Using data pads, they each had copied the information, then silently proceeded to read the accounts.  
  
Adama sighed. All four reports matched what Stokard had already told him. Reckless, juvenile behavior on the part of both men. That Reese had approached Starbuck, looking for a fight, and that the lieutenant had given in. Lords, he wished that he could just put the two on report of a secton and dismiss the case. Two details, however, made the matter much more serious than just the occasional brawl: that Reese had been on duty in a restricted area, and, even more troubling, a laser had been fired.   
  
Had the matter not involved Council Security, Adama could have handled it as strictly an internal military issue. However, since the conflict had crossed over civilian lines, it became much more delicate and complicated. Law dictated that because a civilian law enforcement agent was involved, the matter had to follow the Security Council channels, which meant presenting all evidence and statements to the Council's Chief Opposer to review. The C.O. would then hold a preliminary hearing to announce whether or not formal charges would be filed. The law was meant to ensure an outside, unbiased perspective to maintain the balance of power between the military branch and civilian government.  
  
Officially, the Fleet was operating under martial law still, which meant that Adama did not, technically, have to follow Council regulations. But his own code of ethics prevented him from doing anything that might hint at partiality. No, in the interest of unity between the Colonial Service and the civilian Fleet, he *had* to follow the Council law.  
  
Adama looked up at the others. Tigh's mouth was a thin line. "What were they thinking?" the colonel said, shaking his head.  
  
"It boils down to one question, in my view," Adama said, rubbing his forehead. "Intent."  
  
"There's got to be an explanation," Apollo said quietly. The awful image of his friend firing the laser burned in his mind. Accidental or intentional? Lords, his eyes had told him one story, but his mind, his heart refused to believe it. Starbuck could *never* shoot someone like that, not even in anger. Not even . . . No. He could not accept it, even though he had watched it happen. But what, then, was the truth? Only one person could answer that question.  
  
"If I might interrupt?" It was Dr. Salik. Four expectant, questioning faces turned towards him. "Sergeant Reese is beginning to awaken. You should be able to talk to him in about five centons," he said.  
  
"What about Lieutenant Starbuck?" Apollo asked.  
  
"He's still unconscious." Salik frowned. "And we're not sure why. His apparent injuries should not have led to unconsciousness. Strained back muscles, because the previous injury had not yet healed completely, minor bruising and contusions. Oh, and I repaired a broken hand, that I doubt he got from hitting sergeant Reese."  
  
"What do you mean?" Apollo felt both his worry and his confusion intensifying.  
  
"The injury was consistent with striking a solid, immovable object, not a person, and striking it hard.' Salik pursed his lips. "Anyway, we're running further tests to try to determine why he's still unconscious."  
  
"He's been under a great deal of stress lately. Could that have anything to do with it?" asked Apollo.  
  
"It might." Salik paused for a moment, thinking. "Along the lines of Combat Stress Syndrome, perhaps. That would be consistent with the volatile behavior. I'll let you know what the tests reveal. I should have the results soon. In the meantime," Salik looked over to where Reese appeared to be stirring. "It looks like the sergeant is waking up. Give him about three more centons to get oriented, then it should be fine to talk with him."  
  
The four moved over to stand beside the security guard's biobed. With the commander and Apollo on one side and the Colonel and Sheba on the other, they watched as he groaned and blinked open his eyes. He stared and squinted in confusion, then sat up slowly, obviously trying to figure out where he was. Holding his head with both hands, he closed his eyes and groaned.  
  
"Headache, Sergeant?" Adama said curtly. He was in no mood to coddle the guard. He actually wanted to shake him up a bit.  
  
"Huh?" Reese squinted and finally recognized the commander.  
  
"Do you remember what happened?" Colonel Tigh was equally abrupt.  
  
"What?" Reese swung his head, a little too fast, in the other direction and winced.  
  
"Do you remember what happened in the landing bay?" He repeated.  
  
"I, uh, landing bay?"  
  
"Think, Sergeant!" Tigh snapped. "You and Stokard were on duty, in Beta Bay, guarding the restricted area."  
  
Reese rubbed his forehead and appeared to concentrate. "Beta Bay. Yeah, I remember . . ." He suddenly sat up straight on the biobed and looked from Adama to Tigh. "I -- I remember, sirs."  
  
"Please tell us exactly what happened between you and Lieutenant Starbuck," Tigh said. "And, Sergeant?"  
  
He looked from the commander's silent, stern stare to the colonel's disapproving frown. "Yes?"  
  
"Keep in mind that we have already talked with Stokard and the other witnesses -- Dr. Wilker and his assistants. So we expect there to be no big discrepancies between your description and theirs."  
  
"Yes, sir . . ." Reese took a deep breath. His face was red, with tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Still, he gave a factual but basically honest account of what had happened. He knew that anything less, at this point, would just cause more trouble for him.   
  
"Did you provoke Lieutenant Starbuck?" Tigh asked, after he had finished. Reese had hinted at his actions, but the colonel wanted him to openly acknowledge them.  
"I, uh, guess so."   
  
"Why?" Apollo asked. He was angry and did not try to conceal it.  
  
Reese stared at his bed. "I was, uh, tired and, uh . . .not happy about having to work a double shift. So I took it out on him." He glanced up at the four faces. While the commander and the colonel were still intent but unemotional, the lieutenant was glaring and the captain, arms crossed, looked ready to explode at him. Reese looked quickly away.  
  
"And who started the fight?" asked Tigh.  
  
"That was Starbuck!" Reese stated defensively. "I admit that I said some things that maybe I shouldn't have, but he attacked me. I wasn't even looking at him at the time! *He* started it."  
  
"After you did your best to goad him," Sheba reminded him dryly. Reese stared back down at the bed.   
  
"Yes, the others concur that Lieutenant Starbuck started the actual fight," Tigh stated.  
  
Reese knew better than to say anything else.  
  
"Do you have any idea why he attacked you?" Tigh continued. "What were you doing at that moment?"  
  
"I, uh . . ." He had to think about it. What was it that had just happened? Then he remembered. "Oh, I know. That crazy man started screaming -"  
  
"Copernicus," Apollo stated. "His name is Copernicus."  
  
"Uh, him. He started screaming like he was having an attack, or something. I was just going to see what was going on. That's when Starbuck jumped me." Reese paused then added, "I was just doing my job!"  
  
"That's debatable," Tigh said. Reese turned red again. The colonel looked at the others. Apollo and Sheba both were frowning intently, their anger still evident. Adama was standing with arms crossed, lips tight. The colonel turned back to Reese. "Sergeant, please think about this next question." He paused. "Did Lieutenant Starbuck intentionally fire the laser?"  
  
"I . . . I don't know." He tried to picture the scene in his head. "He was staring right at me . . .but I don't know."  
  
"All right, sergeant." Tigh suppressed a sigh. He had provided no new information, and the key question remained unanswered. "For unprofessional conduct and fighting while on duty, you are confined to quarters until further notice. I'll be filing a copy of the report of this incident with the Head of Security. He will determine what the consequences should be. You are dismissed to barracks as soon as Dr. Salik discharges you."  
  
"Yes, sir," Reese responded, quietly, staring down at the biobed.  
  
*********  
They had just completed a detailed cranial scan and were awaiting the computer results. On the other side of the lifestation, the commander and the others were questioning Sergeant Reese; although, the interview seemed to be breaking up. Cassiopeia gazed down at her patient. He looked so calm, so peaceful, but she knew better. Shut down, she mused, complete mental shut down due to stress and fatigue. For the moment, they had no other explanation.   
  
How, she wondered, had he gotten from an evening on the Rising Star with Chameleon to shooting Reese in the landing bay? Maybe she would know shortly. Just as soon as the 0600 transmissions download was complete, she intended to check her messages. That would be her first step, to see what he could tell her, if anything. In addition to the one she had sent early last evening she had prepared another message for him after returning from her visit to Blue Squadron's billet. All it said was that they needed to talk, as soon as possible, and then she gave her visitor's code, which gave him permission to travel to the Galactica.  
  
Regardless of what any messages might say, she had decided that she needed to talk to Apollo. It was obvious that something had happened over on the Rising Star. It was time --  
  
Starbuck groaned. He rolled his head from side to side, slowly, for several moments. He seemed to be waking up. Cassie glanced at the monitor that showed his vital signs. Brain activity had been dominated by theta waves, a sign of being in a deep sleep. That appeared to be changing. She looked back at Starbuck. He was mumbling under his breath, eyes still closed.   
  
Suddenly, his heart rate accelerated. And then he gasped, mouth open as if unable to breath. Eyes shot wide open. And a sudden, terrified, unseeing look seized him. He arched his back and let out a deafening, blood curdling cry, screaming the word, "No!"  
  
Dr. Salik rushed out from his office. Everyone else froze and turned to stare.   
A ringing silence dominated as the scream ended, and the lieutenant dropped back to the biobed gasping again, eyes staring, unblinking, straight ahead.   
  
"Starbuck!" Cassie put a hand on his shoulder, shaking, trying to rouse him, to get his attention. Without warning, he grabbed her arm with both hands and pulled her down, gripping so tightly that she groaned in pain. "Starbuck, let go! Wake up!" she said through gritted teeth as she struggled against him, to pull her arm free.  
  
"No! Don't! No! I can't! I can't! No!" His voice held a rising wave of panic as the words repeated over and over. Cassie felt his fingernails digging into her flesh as he squeezed her arm tightly against his chest, as if hanging on for dear life. Then he took a deep breath and went slack. Cassie twisted around to see Dr. Salik standing over the bed, hypogun in hand.   
  
Cassie pulled her arm free, exhaling to calm her nerves and rubbing the stinging welts he had left behind. She gave Dr. Salik a wide-eyed questioning stare, barely noticing that Adama, Tigh, Apollo, and Sheba had rushed over.  
  
"What was that all about?" Apollo asked, looking from Starbuck's still form to Cassie's shocked face to Salik, whom remained unshakeable. He felt a biting frustration at his powerless to help his friend.  
  
"By the way the brain waves reacted," Salik explained, glancing at the monitor, "I'd say he had what we call a 'night terror.' Like a nightmare, only it comes not from the REM state -- the normal dreaming state -- but from a deep, deep sleep. Or from deep within the subconscious."  
  
"Oh, God," Cassie whispered. She was still shaking, trying to calm down. She gazed at Starbuck, who was still and placid, once more. "How much sedative did you give him?" she asked.  
  
"Enough to keep him out for about six centars." Salik looked at the concerned group around him. "He needs rest, plain and simple. I'll probably keep him like this for at least a day, to give his body time to heal and his mind some uninterrupted peace and quiet. Plus, we've got a small problem that we need to take care of."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" Apollo felt a chill run through him.  
  
The doctor motioned for everyone to follow him into his office. Once inside, he sat on the edge of his desk as the others turned tired, distressed faces towards him.  
  
"First, let me assure you that the problem is not life-threatening, but it may explain some things," Salik said. "The scans revealed a minute bone fragment lodged in the lieutenant's cerebrum, in the frontal lobe. It's in the general area that affects memory and behavior -"  
"How'd that get there?" Apollo said, his voice rising. Frustration had given way to open anxiety. Too much had happened in the past 12 centars.  
  
"After the incident on the Sagittarius," Salik explained, still patient, "he sustained a thin skull fracture in the forehead region, as well as a moderate concussion, among other things. We repaired the fracture -- or so I thought. Apparently, I missed a tiny shard of bone. I suspect it has been the catalyst for the problems the lieutenant has been having lately, such as nightmares and the volatility."  
  
"But you can remove it?" asked the commander.  
  
"Yes. That's not a problem. There is, however, a small amount of recent bruising, which is why, I believe, that he's been unconscious. I would guess that the jarring his head took in that fight caused some minor damage. Nothing that can't be easily treated, though."  
  
"So he'll be okay?" Apollo managed to look both relieved and anxious at the same time.  
  
"Removing the fragment should help," Salik said, looking from one face to another, "But it only exacerbated tensions and emotions that were already there, I suspect. I should have my final evaluation for you later today, after we operate, but I can give you a fair idea of what it'll say. Combat Stress Syndrome, triggered by the physical injury."  
  
"We'll need your report," Adama said, glancing at Tigh, then Apollo, Sheba, and finally Cassie, "as soon as possible. Because a weapon was involved, I have to submit all evidence to the Chief Opposer by 1200. And since it will be impossible to talk with Lieutenant Starbuck, your evaluation will be key in determining whether or not he decides to bring him up on formal charges."  
  
"I should have it by 1100," Salik said. "I'll be doing the operation at 0700."  
  
"So . . ." Apollo paused, deciding what he wanted to say. "What's going to happen after you bring him off the sedative? Will he be better?" He glanced at Cassiopeia. Her sullen expression was not reassuring.   
  
"I'll be honest with you, Captain," Salik answered. "The recovery will take time. I suspect that the nightmares may end, maybe, and he should be able to sleep better. But he will still have to deal with everything, all of the stress and emotions, that were triggered."  
  
Sheba watched the concern wash over Apollo's face and moved closer, putting a hand on his arm. He looked haggard now, and she understood, because she felt it, too. To have been flying so high, only a few centars earlier, so filled with hope and love, and the promise of a brighter future, only to come crashing down as the grim reality, the uncertainty of the present moment, took hold. To watch as despair, the demon of their present situation, battered another soul.  
  
Adama let out a long breath. "All right, then," he said, "we need to let the doctor do his job, and we need to proceed with ours." He looked at Apollo and Sheba. "Tigh and I will handle the reports for the Security Council. I want the two of you to get some rest."  
  
"But -" Apollo started to protest.  
  
"No. Do I need to make it an order?" Adama gave his son a stern but concerned look. "The doctor has said that Starbuck will be okay, relatively speaking. And he'll be sedated for the next day, anyway. You'll serve him better by taking care of yourself and getting on with your duties."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Apollo?" The commander's tone was softer, more fatherly. The captain gazed at him. "I'll contact you as soon as Dr. Wilker is allowed to proceed with the probe. And I'll give him the go ahead, once the colonel and I have submitted the reports to the Chief Opposer."  
  
"Okay," Apollo answered quietly.  
  
The group filed out of the doctor's office, Apollo and Sheba, with arms entwined, Adama, Tigh, Cassiopeia, and finally Salik. The captain cast a glance at his friend as they walked past the biobed. He lay so quietly, once more, the first peace he had had, it seemed, in nearly twelve days. Across the room, Reese sat on his bed, fidgeting, waiting for Dr. Salik to release him. And two more faces greeted the group, Tarnia and Copernicus.  
  
"Apollo, Sheba," the commander stated when he saw his son's expression, the clear intent to stay and speak with Tarnia, "Go."  
  
"Father, I want to talk to -"  
  
"Apollo, I know you do, but I also know that you'll do Starbuck no good if you wear yourself out. Also, I *am* aware that you have not had much sleep these past two nights. Rest should be your top priority right now."  
  
"I -" The captain stopped. Adama was gazing steadily at him, but there was a glimmer in his eyes. It was a telling look. While he might not know the details, his father had read, and understood, the significant change in both Apollo and Sheba. "All right," he said at last, knowing that to argue would get him nowhere, anyway. He and Sheba headed out of the lifestation.   
  
Cassie, standing next to the lieutenant's biobed, watched them leave with a sigh. She had hoped for a chance to speak with the captain, but discussions could wait, would have to wait. She had not even had time to check the transmissions for word from Chameleon. Even that would have to wait. At the moment, they had an operation to perform. Dr. Salik dismissed Reese, then looked at Cassie.  
  
"Are you up to this?" he asked, speaking quietly, as he walked up to her. "Professional judgement, please. It may be a straightforward procedure, but I don't want an assistant who's not able to give me 100%."  
  
Cassiopeia took a moment to consider how she felt. Her gaze wandered over to where the commander and Colonel Tigh were seated and talking with Tarnia and Copernicus. Copernicus was staring fixedly in Starbuck's direction. She looked down at the lieutenant again, chewing her lower lip. How did she feel? Exhausted, worried, anxious about how she could ever explain Chameleon's role in all of this -- if she ever had time to understand what his role was -- drained. "I would let Marna assist," She said finally. "Can I observe?"  
  
Salik smiled, satisfied with her honesty. "Of course."  
  
*********  
"Copernicus insisted on coming," Tarnia said as the four sat down at a table in the back. "He wants to tell you what he remembers. I've also got it all right here." She handed a data pad to the commander.  
  
"All right," Adama said, looking at Copernicus. The man was staring across the room. He followed his gaze. He was staring, almost without blinking, at Starbuck. "We would certainly want to hear anything he can tell us. Especially since he's the only one, right now, who knows *why* they were even in the landing bay."  
Tarnia put a hand on Copernicus's shoulder and said quietly and slowly, "Tell them. Tell them what you told me."  
Copernicus shot a glance at Adama and Tigh, before continuing to gaze across the room, but his brow creased as he concentrated on what to say. "My fault," he said at last. "My fault."  
"Why do you say that?" Colonel Tigh asked.  
"Viper. Too see a viper. My fault. My fault." He frowned even more.  
"I figured out that he asked the lieutenant to take him to see a viper," Tarnia said in response to their confused expressions.  
"Why? And what was Starbuck doing with Copernicus at that centar? In the middle of sleep period?" asked Tigh. He and Adama had been wondering about this since the beginning.  
"Copernicus had decided that he needed to examine a real viper in order to solve a problem he had with the research they were doing," Tarnia explained. "And when he wants something, he can be very, very persistent."  
"But it was 0400!" Tigh was tired; it was becoming more difficult to hold onto his patience.  
"Came to my door," said Copernicus. "0055. Tired, so tired. Out of control. Pain. So tired, so tired," Copernicus said. Tigh opened his eyes in surprise, because the man's tone had changed. It was as though he were feeling each emotion, as he said the words. Although he still stared across the room, his expression mirrored his tone. "Pain," he continued, slowly. "Out of control. Tired. So tired." His tone changed again. "Come in. Come in. Come in. Music. My music helps me. Music helps me."  
Adama and Tigh exchanged glances. He appeared to be reliving the incident, running it through his head and providing commentary, from both points of view. They nodded at Tarnia, and she encouraged him to continue.  
"Music is heaven. Is peace and calm. So calm. So calm now. No pain. No pain. Peace. It's okay. It's okay, now. You help me? Help me? Help me? A viper. I needed to see a viper. A viper." Copernicus suddenly swung his gaze to the commander and Tigh. "My fault. My fault." He looked troubled.  
"Copernicus," Adama said, wanting to reassure the man, "it's not your fault. I don't think Lieutenant Starbuck knew that the landing bay was under a security screen. It's not your fault. Under normal circumstances, there'd be no problem in taking you to see a viper. Okay?"  
Brow furrowed, Copernicus stared into the commander's eyes. His gaze was intense, unblinking. The commander repeated, slowly, "It's not your fault."  
Copernicus looked unconvinced. He returned his gaze back across the room.  
"What happened in the landing bay?" Tigh asked, gently. When the man did not respond, he repeated the question. Tarnia finally touched Copernicus's arm and asked the question one more time.  
  
The man frowned again. He appeared to be concentrating, remembering again. "Loud." he said, wincing. "Loud. Loud voice." He put his hands over his ears, but continued. "And anger. That man is angry. Why is he angry? Why is he angry at us?" Copernicus was whispering now, but his face was intense. And he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his hands against his ears.  
"Give him moment," Tarnia explained. "He's remembering the events. This is the way he told it to me, and it's all recorded on the data pad, this way, and with a summary, to explain. And the best I can figure, the next part is from the lieutenant's perspective."  
"What do you mean?" asked Tigh.  
"You'll see in a moment. I've noticed that he seems to be able to connect with Starbuck sometimes, with what he is feeling, and I think he did that this time."  
The commander and Tigh looked back at Copernicus, who had opened his eyes wide. "What's going on here?" His voice was a very close imitation of Starbuck's. He paused, then said, "Reese, I just want to understand what's going on -" He frowned, paused, long enough for the unspoken dialogue to take place, then glared. "We're going! Now get out of my face!" Copernicus grabbed his ears again, and said, quietly still, but intensely, in his own voice, "No! No! Too loud! Afraid!"  
"Good Lord," Tigh whispered. "That sounded like Starbuck, verbatim."  
Tarnia nodded. "He has an extremely accurate memory. And the ability to mimic things he hears - it's called 'echolalia.'"  
Copernicus huddled down in the chair, eyes closed, but then he continued. "Anger! Anger! No!" He winced. It was not clear from whose point of view he was speaking, not yet. "No! Ow! Pain, the pain." He was gasping, panting. "Can't move. Can't move. Too tired. Can't move. Pain!"  
"I really think this is from the lieutenant's perspective," Tarnia whispered as Copernicus paused.  
"It would certainly match the condition in which we found him," said Adama.  
All at once, Copernicus sat up and turned to Colonel Tigh. "Why did that man grab the laser?" He asked in a calm voice. "And why did he pull like that?" He sounded puzzled and detached, so different from the emotion of only a moment earlier. "Why did he pull the laser like that?" He asked again.  
"I don't know." Tigh almost smiled, feeling the first bit of relief since being called to the lifestation. If Copernicus's interpretation of the events were true, it went a long way in clarifying their unanswered question. Tigh had already reached a private conclusion, though, and he hoped that the chief opposer would have sense enough to comprehend it, also; regardless of the lieutenant's intent, one just does not grab a laser by the barrel and pull it out of someone's hand. "Is there anything else?"  
Copernicus shook his head, suddenly looking exhausted. He gazed back over to Starbuck and noticed activity around his bed. Two medtechs had approached. They spoke quietly, nodding. Then Copernicus watched as the two moved Starbuck's biobed towards one of the operating theaters. He started when he seemed to realize what was happening. He gripped Tarnia's arm and stared at her with a worried look.  
"What's going on, if I might ask?" Tarnia said.  
The commander explained the lieutenant's condition. "Copernicus," he said at the end, putting a hand on the man's arm. "He'll be okay. He'll be okay."  
Copernicus gazed at the commander, still looking anxious. "We'll let you know when you can come visit, all right?" Adama smiled.  
Tarnia smiled in return. "Thanks, Commander."************Cassie ran a hand across her face and stifled the yawn that had been trying to escape. So simple and straightforward, yet delicate and deadly, should the physician slip with the laser, the micosurgery had taken two centars. Dr. Salik had worked slowly but skillfully, and Cassie had enjoyed watching his confident artistry. But now, with no more distractions to occupy her mind, she felt the exhaustion settling over her.   
As she walked by the biobed, she paused to gaze at their patient -- one last distraction before checking her messages and tackling the problem of figuring out how to explain Chameleon to Apollo. Starbuck, his eyes closed and lips lightly parted, looked tranquil, despite the nasty, swollen bruise that had formed on his left cheek and temple. Running her fingers under the locks above his forehead, Cassie felt the smooth area where Dr. Salik had had to shave the hair to perform the procedure. No, he would not be happy when he awoke about a day later. She smiled to herself as she pictured the scene; the bruise would be at its most colorful, and, despite the fact that the missing hair was well hidden and the incision invisibly sealed, he would still complain. Or maybe not, Cassie corrected herself, the smile disappearing. That would be his reaction under normal circumstances; she could not predict what might happen this time.  
"How is he?" Tarnia had approached quietly and had observed the emotions playing across the medtech's face.  
"He'll be fine, in time. I think." Cassie looked up and did not bother to hide her concern. In the brief period that she had known Tarnia, she had come to trust her, to feel comfortable with her, enough so that Cassie believed that she, of all the counselors on staff aboard the Galactica, could guide her companion through his turmoil and lead him back. But it would take time. The physical injury -- that tiny, tiny, fragment -- had been the catalyst, like a magnifying glass that had sparked a brush fire. But the flames it had raised would not simply vanish; nor could they be ignored or denied. The Lords knew how he had already tried to do that. No, Tarnia would need to gently probe to the source, then help bring the right perspective back to everything again. How much time that would take, she did not know. Cassie closed her eyes and sighed.  
"What about you?" Tarnia put a hand on the medtech's arm. "Are you all right?"  
"I'll be fine, too," Cassie answered. "But there's a level to all of this mess that the commander, and even Apollo, aren't aware of. Somehow, I need to explain it to them, I think. I don't know. I need to check my messages. . . ."  
"Perhaps I can help?" said a voice from the lifestation entrance.  
"Chameleon!" Cassie exhaled. "Yes. We definitely need to talk."  
  
*************************  
  
  
The quiet but persistent beeping of the door chime finally aroused the captain from his deep slumber. Reluctantly, he sat up and rubbed his hands across his face and through his hair to wake up. A glance at his chronometer showed that he had actually gotten almost two and a half centars of sleep. Not long enough, he reflected, but it would have to do; he was surprised that he had slept at all, in fact.   
After returning to his quarters earlier, he had arrived just as Boxey had been waking up. Forcing all concerns aside, Apollo had concentrated on simply being a father as he had played with Boxey, fixed a quick morning meal in their quarters, then taken him to his first instructional period. Upon returning, he had felt too awake to sleep, so he had laid down on his bunk, intending just to close his eyes and rest. The wakefulness had obviously been an illusion, because he barely remembered putting his head on the pillow, before hearing the insistent door chime.  
Climbing to his feet, the captain ran a hand once more through his dark hair and frowned at the sound of his determined visitor. Apollo pressed the activation panel, and the door slid open. Lieutenant Boomer greeted him with crossed arms and an intense face.  
"What's up?" Apollo was awake now. He motioned for Boomer to enter.  
"Just what happened last night?" the lieutenant asked, stopping after crossing the threshold, as the door closed behind him.  
  
"There was some trouble in the landing bay after we left," Apollo answered, studying the lieutenant's furrowed brow and pursed lips. "What's going on?"  
"Did this 'trouble' involve Starbuck and Reese?"  
"Yes." Apollo did not like the feeling that was building inside. As they both skirted the issue, probing to find out what the other knew, the captain had a fair idea about what Boomer had to say. "How do you know about that? You went back to the billet to rest, right?"  
"Well," Boomer said with a sigh, "The rumors are spreading faster than the Aquarius Flu. I went to midday meal in the commissary, and it was packed with both warriors and blackshirts -- now that the rationing is over. Anyway, it seems that two of the guards were monitoring the surveillance cameras to Beta Bay." Boomer paused, watching the captain's reaction, the narrowing of his eyes and the tightening of his jaw.  
"And what do they say happened?" Apollo could easily picture the scene, the tale the guards would be telling in front of such a large audience. They would have seen but not heard the events over the monitor.  
"They say," Boomer said slowly, "that Starbuck entered the restricted area, argued with Reese, then attacked him. And then shot him."  
Apollo let out a slow breath. "That's partly what happened."  
"The blackshirts were also dredging up Starbuck's behavior with that reporter," Boomer continued, "and gloating about how he's obviously unfit for duty."  
"Frak." Apollo closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. After a moment, he explained to Boomer what he had seen and what the reports stated.   
"Well that's just lovely," Boomer said, after Apollo had finished. "Because regardless of what really happened -- or how much Reese did to provoke Starbuck -- the blackshirts are going to believe what they want to, since they 'saw the whole thing.' And," Boomer added, "they are already griping that nothing will be done, even though he shot Reese. It was not a pretty scene."  
  
"Sounds like we'd better talk to my father," Apollo said, "before they start a fight in the commissary. Plus, we've got enough nonmilitary personnel aboard this ship that this whole thing could end up all over the IFB, if something isn't done quickly." The captain paused, wondering, briefly, if he ought to change uniforms, but time was against them. "Let's go!" he said and headed out the door.  
  
******************  
"I'll be in touch as soon as I reach a decision. Solon out."  
As the face of the chief opposer faded from the commander's viewscreen, Adama sank back into his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers and allowing the wave of both frustration and exhaustion to wash over him for a moment. He was alone in his office, and private moments, the chance to just let the emotions flow, were so rare for him. Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths and let his thoughts drift.  
Eventually, he brought himself back to the present moment. He had transmitted all reports and visual records of the landing bay incident to the C.O. That matter was out of his hands, for now. Solon had stated that he wanted to talk to the lieutenant, and would not make any decisions until he had that opportunity; thus, the case was on hold for a day, maybe longer. So, he reflected, time to move on. Time to see to our 'visitor,' then.   
He pressed a code on the viewscreen keypad. Microns later, Wilker's face appeared. "Yes, Commander?"  
"I've read over the report of your initial findings. What's your next step, once the decon is finished?" Adama asked. The obvious anticipation on the scientist's face brought a faint smile back to the commander.  
"First we need to seal the radiation leak, but that can easily be done with a remote drone. And we designed some struts to serve as supports, so that we can reestablish the gravity to the bay without damaging the craft. They're ready now. So once the decon is finished, we'll be able to proceed with that."  
  
"Good, good," Adama said. "Proceed with the containment of the radiation leak, and then we'll meet you and your team in the bay at 1800."  
"Yes, Sir! Wilker out!"  
The screen went blank again, and Adama sat back more easily this time. All indications were that the probe was a vessel of exploration from an unknown civilization, a friendly beacon to help foster a little hope that not everyone in the universe was out to exterminate them. Lords, the commander reflected, they were only four days away from the one-yahren anniversary of the Great Destruction. To try to help balance the incredible and horrific memories he knew it would evoke, he and the Council had decided to emphasize the future and the strength of human spirit that all had shown since that time.   
  
Marking the precise time that the Cylons had begun their massive and destructive assault, Adama would commence the ceremonies with a short discourse and prayer, followed by twelve centons of silence, one for each of the Colonies, to allow everyone a few private moments to pray or reflect or simply grieve. But after that, the day would be a celebration of the human will to survive. Immense festivities were planned, stretching their resources as much as they dared. The goal was to highlight and rejoice in all that mankind still had left, as well as to proclaim that the Cylons would never kill the human spirit.  
The door chime beeped.  
"Enter." Adama gazed at the entrance to his office. The door slid open, and Apollo and Boomer strode inside. The commander noted their winded expressions, evidence that they had been in a hurry.  
"Father," Apollo said, taking a deep breath, "we've got a situation brewing between the security forces and the warriors."  
"How so?" Adama stood up.  
Boomer explained what had been happening in the commissary. "That was about 30 centons ago," he said as he finished. "It just felt like people on both sides were itching for a fight. I probably should have called the colonel right then, but I was preoccupied with what I was hearing about Starbuck."  
"Well, we'll do that now." Adama paged the bridge. "Colonel Tigh, contact the Head of Security, then have him meet us at the commissary. I'll explain when we get there."  
"Acknowledged. Tigh out."  
It took only four centons to go from the commander's office to the commissary, which was located on Gamma Deck. They had met up with the colonel at the turbolift and had briefed him along the way. As they approached the wide double doors, the two oval glass panels revealed that the commissary was still crowded, not unexpected, since now was one of the three most frequent break times for midday meal. Adama, his expression stern, used both hands to push open the doors without breaking his stride.  
The noise was like a blast of steam, loud and forceful, as Apollo and Boomer entered behind the commander and the colonel. The captain immediately heard the provocative tone to the phrases being exchanged above the normal, casual conversations. Adama stopped to quickly assess the situation. Many seemed to be trying to ignore the verbal commotion, except for a group of warriors and security guards near the back -- the source. As people noticed the commander and colonel and stopped to watch, the dispute became more audible. Being several metrons away and embroiled in their argument, the group had not noticed, yet, the visitors. Adama, Tigh, Apollo, and Boomer stopped to listen.  
"You warriors think you're above the Council laws," a guard was saying. He was seated at a table with a group of about seven or eight security officers, and all were facing an equal number of Colonial warriors at an adjacent table. Several from each group were standing and looked ready to fight.  
"Look, blackshirt, why should we believe what you're telling us?" a pilot said. He jabbed a finger at the guard in front of him. "And if he *did* shoot him, then he frakkin' deserved it!"  
The guard answered with a scowl, "No, this time your hotheaded lieutenant crossed the line." Both Apollo and Boomer moved to intervene, but Adama put a hand out to stop them. The guard, still unaware that they were being watched, continued, "Even the commander can't support someone who shoots an unarmed man -"  
"Nor will the commander tolerate security breeches." Adama's deep voice sliced through the commotion and brought silence to the large hall. He waited, allowing the effect of his presence to radiate through the group in front of him, as warriors and guards scrambled to attention.  
  
"Nor will I," said another voice from behind the commander. Captain Fulton, Head of Security, approached with unconcealed anger on his face. Adama nodded his approval as the captain stepped past him to confront the group. "This is a disgrace to the people you serve -- all of you!" Fulton glared from warrior to guard. "The commander and I have discussed the tensions that have arisen between the two corps -- the warriors and Council Security. And all of you know that both the commander and the Council have been working very hard, *very hard,* to resolve their differences and present a united front to the people."  
  
The captain stopped to glare once more at the group, before continuing. "Then to learn that two of my officers would knowingly discuss events that occurred in a restricted zone, with the intention of further exacerbating these tensions -- inexcusable! I'm putting every one of you on report."  
All were silent. Some looked red-faced and embarrassed, others looked angry, still, and some stared straight ahead, faces blank, bodies at full attention. The commander let his own disapproval show on his face as he looked at the warriors and guards. His gaze sweep from one end of the group to the other before he spoke. "I am deeply disappointed in all of you. . ." His slow, quiet tone was more piercing than had he raised his voice. "that you would disregard your vow to uphold the security and safety of the people of the Fleet for the sake of petty disagreements and jealousies. Because that's what you are doing here. Creating tensions, starting rumors, feeding animosities that have no place in this Fleet to begin with."  
The commander paused to give each an icy stare. "Never mind that the incident being discussed occurred in a restricted area -- and that such events should have remained confidential. I have faith that Captain Fulton will properly deal with those two individuals. The rest of you are equally at fault for letting this continue at all. No one here has the facts. No one here *really* knows what happened. But by fueling the flames of this dispute between the two forces, you jeopardize the unity of this Fleet. Our people need hope and security from those that are their protectors -- not pettiness and divisiveness."   
  
Adama raised his voice just enough to be heard by everyone within the commissary. "I will consider any further discussion of this incident as a security breach, and I will issue a ship-wide statement to reiterate what I have said here."  
The commander paused again, this time to consider his next words. He gazed briefly at the floor before he looked back up and spoke again. "In the interest of maintaining the unity here among the two forces -- warriors and Council security -- I will also inform you that all evidence in this matter has been turned over to the chief opposer, as per Colonial law, for investigation. Any decisions regarding consequences shall be his and not mine. Colonel?"  
  
Tigh stepped forward to glare at the warriors. "Each of you is also on report. I'll deal with you later. Dismissed to barracks!"  
  
***************  
  
Apollo and Boomer followed Adama back into his office, leaving Tigh once more to command the bridge. Before doing so, Adama had issued the brief but blunt intraship statement: that Beta Bay was a restricted zone until further notice, and any discussion of events occurring in that area would be a security violation. The commander hoped that they had effectively contained the rumors and speculations and restored the relative peace between the two forces.   
  
As the door closed behind them, Adama leaned against his desk, arms crossed, gazing thoughtfully at an image of the Galactica that hung on the opposite wall. Apollo and Boomer waited. Finally, the commander looked at his warriors. "The Council and I have made too much progress in creating a unified, supportive front to let an incident like this one refuel the old mistrusts," he said. "Both Starbuck's and Reese's actions must have strict consequences, which is why, once Solon makes his decision, I will support it fully and will issue a formal, ship-wide announcement.""When do you think Solon will make that decision?" Apollo asked. He understood his father's decision, but the uncertainty, not knowing how Solon would interpret this matter, left a cold knot in his stomach. Adama sighed. "He told me that he would ask Doctor Salik to inform him as soon as Starbuck is awake and able to answer questions. So we won't know anything for a day, at least." Adama studied the worried faces in front of him. "There's not much more that we can do, for now.""Father, what do you think is going to happen?" "Apollo," Adama said quietly, "I trust Solon. I believe that he will consider every detail and make a fair decision in this case. That's just my feeling." He gave a slight smile. "For now, let's not dwell on what *might* happen. Besides, I've given Dr. Wilker the go-ahead on the probe. We'll get our first close-up look at 1800. Why don't we -"The door chime sounded.Adama raised an eyebrow. "Enter." The three turned to look expectantly at the entrance.The door slid open to reveal Cassiopeia. She was hesitant, coming only partway in, stopping on the threshold. "Colonel Tigh told me that Apollo has here with you," She said. "Do you have time to talk?" She shifted her gaze from the commander to Apollo to Boomer.  
  
"We do," Adama answered. "Come on in."  
  
Cassie moved on through, followed by Chameleon. Apollo and Boomer exchanged glances, wondering what was going on. Noticing the anxious look on the man's face, the captain assumed that it concerned something that had occurred while Starbuck was on the Rising Star. Maybe now they would learn why the lieutenant had gone from a night out with Chameleon to visiting Copernicus. Apollo had yet to understand that part of his friend's fateful evening. "Why don't we all sit down," the commander said. He motioned, and Apollo and Boomer pulled up two chairs in front of his desk, then sat down on the sofa along the wall. Cassie hesitated once more, then sat down as Chameleon nodded to her. Adama leaned back in his chair. "I'm assuming, Chameleon," he said, glancing at Cassie, "that you know what has happened with Starbuck." When Chameleon nodded slightly, eyes averted, Adama continued. "Perhaps you can tell us about the lieutenant's state of mind when he was with you?" "Uh, yes, Sir." Chameleon took a deep breath. "Commander, I have to tell you something else, too, but I need you to bare with me."Adama frowned at the vague statement and glanced over at Apollo, then Boomer. Both also looked puzzled. "Of course," he said. "Go ahead."Chameleon gazed at a spot on the commander's desk as he spoke. "Last night, I tried to explain something to Starbuck, but he didn't take it very well." He looked up to meet the commander's gaze. "Let me try to explain the same thing to you." Chameleon, following the course of logic that he had used the previous evening, first described his reasoning, then finally got to the point. "In other words, those test results were positive. I am Starbuck's father."A stunned silence reigned for several moments. Then Apollo, his face furrowing, abruptly stood. Boomer stood also, to put a hand on the captain's arm. Apollo shook him off and pointed a finger at Chameleon. "You knew that you were Starbuck's father and you didn't tell him?" His face was furious now. "I don't get it either -- why you'd even consider hiding the truth! You *knew* how important that was to him!" "Apollo, hold on," Boomer said, placing himself between the captain and Chameleon. "Let him speak.""Yes," said Adama, who was staring at Chameleon with narrowed eyes. "I want to hear more." He looked at Apollo, who was standing, hands squeezed tight in frustration. "You say you were afraid that Starbuck would overreact and resign from the service, so you wanted to wait for a better time." Adama gazed at him, eyes narrowing even more. "It's been sectars since that incident. Why did you wait so long to tell him?"Chameleon glanced at Cassie, who remained stony faced, staring at a spot in front of the commander's desk. "I'm not sure. . . but I didn't think he was ready at that time, not after I'd just told him that I wasn't his father."Apollo was still glaring at the man. Too much had happened in so short a time for him to hold on to his normally calm exterior. Not now, not after seeing the end result of Chameleon's revelation. It made sense now. If he, himself, felt this angry, he could only imagine what Starbuck had felt after hearing Chameleon's words. Apollo took a deep breath, studying the way Chameleon had sunk down in his chair, eyes averted, fingers tapping nervously together. And something else clicked. "I think," the captain said slowly, "that you were more afraid for yourself than for Starbuck. I think *you* couldn't handle the truth."Chameleon turned to the captain. "Look, I'll - I'll admit that that's part of it, but - " he said. He seemed ready to argue, but his voice faltered. He looked away again, gazing at the floor. "Yes. . ." He said eventually. "You're right. I was afraid, afraid for. . . myself." He swallowed at the admission and clenched his jaw for a moment, before going on. "I - I've lived so many yahrens on my own, taking care of myself. I . . . I wasn't used to thinking about someone else. Just me. I -- I've never formed a lot of attachments since what happened way back on Umbra." He glanced up briefly, then looked away again. "When Starbuck told me, when we were alone in the launch bay, that he wanted to resign and -- and make up for lost time, I -- I didn't know what to do. I never dreamed that he'd . . . he'd give himself over so . . . completely to me." Chameleon stopped and covered his face with his hand. "My own son . . ." He said softly, barely above a whisper, "and I certainly never deserved any such devotion . . ." "Apollo," Boomer said, "regardless of why he waited, he did tell Starbuck." He gazed at Chameleon. "And he *is* his father."Apollo finally let himself ponder that information and remained silent."I assume you now know that he's been under a great deal of stress, lately," Adama said glancing at Cassiopeia, who nodded. "And while I understand your reasoning, at least in part, about waiting to tell, I don't agree with it."  
  
"Well, that's why Cassie has been after me ever since that day. Once I'd decided to withhold the truth, I was afraid to correct the situation and tell him." Chameleon locked eyes for an instance with the commander, before averting them again. "I don't know what it's like to be a father, Adama. I never knew . . . and I still don't even know where to start." He took a deep breath. "All you needed to do was give your love, Chameleon," Adama said, glancing at Apollo with a brief glimmer of tenderness. He turned his gaze back, frowning. "You did it, Adama." Chameleon said, catching the look that had passed between father and son. "You were more of a father to Starbuck than I could ever have been -- or be.""I'm not enough." Adama said curtly."Yes," Chameleon said quietly. "I realize now how wrong I was.""Well, what's done is done," Adama said. He looked up at Apollo, who was standing, hands on hips, listening with a skeptical expression on his face. Boomer also continued to stand, arms crossed, lips pursed. "What did you do after Starbuck left?" The commander asked."I just sat there for several centons. I didn't know what to do," Chameleon said. "I finally went to the shuttle bay to see if he was there. When I learned that I had just missed a shuttle for the Galactica, I assumed that he had been on it. I waited and took the return shuttle to the Senior Ship -- had to, or I'd have been stranded on the Rising Star.""Well, this does shed some light on Starbuck's state of mind," Adama said. "And whenever he came back, he eventually went to see Copernicus, instead of returning to the billet." The commander described what Copernicus and Tarnia had told him. All four listened intently. And as he listened, Apollo began to pace. Despite everything, despite the reasons behind Chameleon's delayed revelation, one fact remained -- the man was Starbuck's father."I'm not sure I understand, yet, what actually happened in that launch bay," said Boomer, "but we all remember how explosive Starbuck was back when he found out that we ran a security check on Chameleon, and that was under 'normal' circumstances.""Chameleon," Apollo said, stopping finally to stand near his father, "This is going to take time -- for all of us -- but most especially for Starbuck. Lords!" Apollo threw his hands in the air and gazed up in exasperation. "If I find it this hard to accept and forgive you, I can only imagine what Starbuck will be facing . . ." He looked back at the man, who suddenly seemed old and frail, hunkered down in his chair, eyes reflecting . . . what? The silence stretched on for nearly a centon. "Look," the captain said eventually, "you seem truly remorseful. I see that. I do. But you -- your actions helped trigger Starbuck's collapse. You caused it, partly . . . and you can . . ." he paused, and he seemed to be convincing himself as much as Chameleon. Then he gazed at the man. "You can help him heal, too. He *needs* his father. He *needs* you." Apollo pointed a finger at Chameleon. "And I expect you to be there. Be there for him as he works through all of this. He's going to need his friends and his family. You." Chameleon nodded. He started to say something, but the words caught in his throat. "Yes," was all that would come out."Apollo's right," Adama said. "And it will take time and patience." The commander rose and walked over to Chameleon, standing in front of him with arms crossed. "I've cared for Starbuck, for a long time, as if he were my own son, Chameleon. If you're willing to repair the damage done, I'll help you out whenever you feel you need the guidance. Yet, your own heart will have to be your true guide. Love and experience will teach you . . . teach you both, father and son." Finally, he offered him a hand. Hesitantly, Chameleon stood and grasped the hand. "And when the time is right," Adama continued, "we'll make the proper toasts."  
  



	10. Chapter Eleven

Chapter 11  
  
Wearing the awkward but effective magnetic boots in the weightless environment, a viper tech had carefully disconnected the tow line from Apollo's ship and slowly moved it away from the probe. Using remote technology, the scientist had been able to seal the radiation leak, so they could safely approach the probe, now, without protective suits. Next, Wilker's two assistants had set up the supports. Using the tow line to guide it, they gently pulled the craft down until it rested on its new 'legs.' Once assured that the supports were positioned correctly, they exited back through the airlock so that the artificial gravity could be reestablished within the containment field. Dr. Wilker studied his instruments as the gravity was slowly reactivated. He knew there was the possibility that the pressure could damage the craft, so he was ready to stop the process at the slightest indication of structural stress.   
  
Behind him, a small but eager group waited and watched. Adama, Tigh, Athena, Apollo, Boomer, and Sheba gazed through the viewports as the slow procedure continued. For Apollo, the excitement of the moment was unparalleled to anything he had experienced since the Great Destruction. Only one factor tempered his joy B the absence of his friend. At least, he reflected briefly, saying a silent prayer, Starbuck was safe and resting peacefully, for now.  
  
Staring back through the viewport, Apollo gazed at the craft. It was beautiful, so much like some of the ancient probes that had been built by the Colonies well before the start of the Thousand-Yahren War. Dr. Wilker, based off of his own knowledge and earlier readings, had theorized that it contained at least ten different types of instrumentation. Several were evidently telescopic in nature; others were indefinable, as of yet. The main apparatus's function was obvious to everyone. The large dish had been its antenna for transmitting data back to its home world. The two long trusses, Wilker had explained, contained the vessel=s power source, radio isotopic thermal generators, one on each end. Other devices and equipment nestled in a cluster on the back of the dish.  
  
The way the supports had been set up, the edge of the dish rested at approximately shoulder height and the craft pointed upwards, with its trusses and another long, narrow device jutting safely outward, well away from the floor. The scientists would easily be able to examine and explore every aspect of the craft. Apollo wanted to simply look at it, touch it, and, knowing that it had probably been constructed many, many hundreds of yahrens ago, wonder about its creators.  
  
After 40 centons, Wilker stood up and faced the group. "Well, we're ready! Normal gravity has been successfully restored. Uh, Commander?"   
  
"Yes?" Adama turned from the viewport. He had been staring at the probe and had almost not heard the doctor.  
  
"Not to be rude, or anything," Wilker said, hesitating, "but we'll be better able to work if there are fewer distractions. I realize that you all are equally interested in this probe . . ."  
  
"Don't worry, Doctor," Adama said, smiling. "We'll only take a small amount of your time to examine the craft. Then, we'll leave you to your work. All right?"  
  
"Okay, that'll be fine." Wilker nodded. "It'll take about 20 centons to set up our equipment, anyway." He motioned to his assistants and they began hefting the devices into the containment wall's airlock.  
  
After they had gone through, Adama gave a grin that revealed his own enthusiasm. "Shall we?"  
  
  
Feeling like a child on his nova-yahren, Apollo followed behind Sheba. Another few centons and they were inside the containment area. Dr. Wilker and his team were busy arranging their equipment and still bringing more inside. The six warriors approached the craft, slowly, spreading out to walk all around it. Apollo grasped Sheba's hand tightly, feeling the joy from the certainty that she shared his enthusiasm. All other thoughts and concerns faded for the moment as he simply gazed at the craft.  
  
"Apollo," Sheba whispered. "I feel so. . . so. . . at peace, as I look at it. It's almost weird."  
  
"I feel the same way," Apollo answered. He squeezed her hand as they moved closer, walking up to the edge of the dish. It was constructed from a thin, white material with a metallic framing. Cautiously, Apollo ran a finger along the edge. It was smooth and cool. The captain put his palm against the inside of the dish. "I wonder where it's from?" He said, his voice barely audible.   
  
"Who were they?" Sheba asked, feeling the edge with both hands.  
  
Apollo walked slowly to his left, studying the center apparatus of the dish. "If it came from the binary system, we might find out more in another sectar. Otherwise," he paused to gaze into Sheba's face, "we may never know." For a moment, regret eclipsed joy, but only for a micron.  
  
"Won't we?" Sheba frowned, puzzled, almost sensing an answer. She shook off the feeling. "Imagine," she said, smiling again, drinking in the excitement from Apollo's emerald eyes, "what if they are a civilization that has not known endless war. Maybe they have made far greater technological progress than we have."   
  
"Maybe. And maybe -"  
  
"Good, Lord!" The startled cry from Colonel Tigh broke through the quiet of the bay. "Look at this!"  
  
Adama, Apollo, Sheba, Boomer, Athena, and Wilker hurried around to where the colonel stood, next to one of the trusses.   
  
"Take a look," Tigh said, pointing.  
  
Nestled above the metal frame of the truss and under the edge of the dish was what looked like, at first glance, a small, golden panel. Apollo leaned in closer. It was not a panel, but a plaque, a plaque with inscribed illustrations, a message from the probe's creators.   
  
"Oh, my . . ." Apollo whispered as he saw the images. Everyone stood in silence as the significance of the panel sank in. While there were various symbols and illustrations, two graphics immediately stood out.  
  
"By the Lords of Kobol. . ." Adama said.  
  
Drawn in front of a profile sketch of the probe itself were pictures representing the race's creators -- a male and a female.  
  
"They're human! Human!" Sheba gripped Apollo by the arms.  
  
"They are, indeed," said Wilker, his voice reflecting the amazement felt by everyone as he gazed at something he would never have expected: a clear image of a man and a woman, nude. The man's arm was raised in what might have been a greeting.   
  
Apollo could only stare as the image before him blended with a vision in his mind, the illustration from Maldek's book. They were the same, he realized, even though the sketch in the book was only a crude representation. "Sheba," he whispered, "Do you recognize it?."  
  
"Lords of Kobol . . ." Sheba remembered the illustration, too.  
  
  
"And look at this!" Athena interrupted their thoughts. She pointed to another sketch, below and to the left of the humans. It clearly showed a system of planets and indicated the origin of the probe, because a arrow was drawn to trace the flight path of the craft. It had come from the third planet and had looped past the fifth.  
  
"Count the planets, Father." Apollo was squeezing tightly on Sheba's arms, as well. He already knew how many there were; he had gazed at these same images, the sketches in Maldek's book, countless times before, wondering what the Prophet's drawings had meant. Now he knew. "Count them," he said softly.  
  
"Nine. Nine planets. . ." Adama breathed.  
  
"I guess it's not from the binary system, then . . ." Boomer murmured, knowing full well what the illustration meant.  
  
"What's that?" Tigh pointed to a sketch in the upper left corner. It showed two circles, with a short, vertical line within each, as well as ones that intersected the top of the circles, which were connected by a horizontal line.   
  
"My guess would be an atomic particle. It looks very much like a hydrogen atom." Wilker looked like he would explode from the excitement. But everyone understood; they felt the same way.   
  
"Hydrogen," Apollo whispered to himself. "The Silver Bride would bring Her Father's emblem on Her helmet... Helio's Breath of Fire. . ." His voice rose. "Earth. It's from Earth!"  
  
"And it's just like those beings told us," Sheba said. "A system with nine planets and one sun. So Earth is the third planet . . ."  
  
"But it wasn't on course with the coordinates we've been following," Boomer said, frowning a bit.  
  
"It's quite possible," Wilker explained, "that the gravitational pull from the binary system -- or some other celestial object -- has altered its course."  
  
"But, Father. . ." Apollo said, thinking, "it was still on a direct course for the Fleet. How, in all of infinite space, did it end up right in our path?"  
  
Adama was frowning, too. "And if it's been traversing the universe at the velocity at which we found it," he said, "then it's been traveling for thousands and thousands of yahrens."  
  
No one said anything for a moment while each pondered the implications of that fact. Apollo felt a hollowness growing in the pit of his stomach that tempered his elation. "This is an artifact from Earth's past, but what can we expect to find now?" he finally said.  
  
With Apollo on one side and Athena on the other, Adama put a hand on his children's shoulders. "Nothing has changed. We've always been faced with the uncertainty of Earth's civilization and what has become of it. But," he added, the exhilaration returning, "we now know -- have concrete evidence! -- that Earth is not just a myth. We have something real to take to the people."  
  
Wilker cleared his throat. "Um, if we might be allowed to proceed?" He looked expectantly at the commander.  
  
"Of course!" Adama motioned to the others. "Let's give the scientists some room. The probe isn't going anywhere."  
  
Boomer and Athena reluctantly tore their gazes from the probe and nodded. Boomer crossed his arms, waiting. Athena sighed, but knew that they needed to let Wilker do his job. She watched her brother with a smile as he continued to stare at the craft.   
  
"Just a moment longer. . ." Apollo leaned in closer to gaze at the golden plaque, the message from the Thirteenth Tribe. Sheba moved with him, also wanting one last look, before leaving. Her grip on his arm was tight from the excitement.   
  
  
Despite its apparent age, the plaque was shiny and unblemished. He drank in the pictures, the astronomical symbols not yet comprehensible, the clear illustration of Earth's solar system, the silhouette of the probe, and the images of the humans. A man and woman from Earth. Apollo reached a hand out to feel the engraved lines. Gently, his fingers brushed the outline of the humans.  
  
And a white light exploded.  
  
Apollo squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the dazzling glare. He felt only one sensation, bizarrely, as the light penetrated even his eyelids: Sheba's warm body against his. The physical feeling suddenly expanded, transformed, until he felt disembodied, but still in contact with Sheba, her consciousness . . . and another, another familiar presence.  
  
Then a whine, a high-pitched frequency, that grew in intensity until the pain was unbearable. The light seemed to spin, and he felt dizzy, nauseated.  
  
Then silent darkness, deafening with the sudden absence of sound.  
  
He was alone. But not alone.  
  
Apollo blinked, opening his eyes slowly. They still burned from the intensity of the light and he shut them again. Instead, he concentrated on what his other senses, against all logic, were now telling him, bit by bit, as if layers were being peeled away. Wind, he felt wind, first, a breeze, against his cheek and through his hair, against the side of his body. And then the salty, cool smell of an ocean, mingled with the musty, rich scent of the soil after a rain storm. The unmistakable roar of waves rushing in and pulling back out pulsated through his head.  
  
Apollo opened his eyes. Slowly, slowly, he let his gaze drift out and around. He stood amid the stubbly, short brush at the crest of a small hill. Sloping downward, the weeds gave way to a golden brown sand that reached out into an emerald blue-green ocean. The call of soaring birds filtered in and out as the waves crashed upon the beach and washed back out. He turned slowly, gaping in amazement. To either side, the land gradually curved out, creating a crescent shape. In the distance, the land rose quickly into mountains. The sky had a golden yellow glow that was quickly fading into the dark colors of a sunset. The sun was sinking behind the mountain ridge.  
  
Quickly, too quickly, and more rapidly as he watched, the day evaporated into the velvet of night, the stars sprinkled above. Then even the stars faded. Darkness again. And isolation. No sensations at all, for a brief moment.  
  
The light of day burst out once more, like watching a vid in fast motion, and Apollo noted the new and different sensations even before he could see again. A forest, a mountain forest. Tall, thin, dark green trees that reached towards the sky, a snow-capped peak towering above them. The air was cold. And thin. Much different than at sea level. He was in a clearing, a high altitude meadow. He heard quiet, gurgling sounds behind him and he turned to see a small river. The view was inspiring, breathtakingly pure.   
  
Once more the light faded, more quickly this time, and he heard the high frequency whine return, faintly though.   
  
He felt disconnected, now. Disembodied.   
  
He was flying, soaring, above the land. A desert, a great desert that stretched as wide as an ocean. He sailed above the rolling dunes, until the outline of a city broke the horizon. The landscape changed below him. He was over a populated area. There were buildings and roads and other unnatural structures.   
  
Manmade.   
  
  
He was soaring above Earth. He knew it. He needed no explanation; he just knew. The scenes were changing quickly now. He saw snapshots from all around Earth, from all periods of time. Urban areas, rural regions, vast fields, decaying, neglected streets. People who were suffering, people who were living lavishly. Shrines, cathedrals, palaces. Simple, primitive villages, modern, amazing cities. People reaching out and living together, fostering love and strength. People divided and destroyed by war. He was meant to glimpse it, feel it, but not yet comprehend it fully. That would have to wait until later. They would learn more, he realized, in time. He just knew.  
  
He was back over the desert, sailing above the sand.  
  
And then he saw them, The Great Pyramids. And he saw The Sphinx. The symbol of Light watching over mankind, guarding their destinies.   
  
The certainty's security.   
  
Above, shone the three stars from The Hunter -- Orion, as it was called on Earth -- how did he know the name? How could he possibly know? Yet, he just knew that the pyramids were astronomically aligned to The Hunter's constellation as a reminder for Humankind's connection with their origins. He soared towards the Pyramids. The monumental legacy of the Thirteenth Tribe, even if the inhabitants were not aware of it. Not aware? Again, as with the name of Orion, the knowledge came from deep within and from without. Apollo just knew that they had forgotten their origins. . .   
  
As he sailed past the first pyramid, he saw again the great Sphinx's head with benevolent eyes that gazed right through him. At one point in their timeline, those placid eyes were staring right at Leo's constellation rising. . . Leo was now silhouetted by the rising sun in the east. A greeting from Maldek.  
  
He flew over the head of the Sphinx, then straight up, through the clear sky, into the heavens, to the darkness of space, accelerating, beyond all imagination. Yet he felt nothing now.  
  
Then the whine, the high pitch, piercing the mind, the retuning of his brainwaves that was so intense that all exploded into nothingness.  
  
Silence.  
  
Stillness. Peace.  
  
Apollo felt the warmth from her body pressed tightly against him. His arms were wrapped around her and she was embracing him, holding him so securely. He could feel the pulsing of her heart against his chest.  
  
"What happened? Are you all right?" A voice, distant, still. His father's.  
  
"Apollo?" This time the words were close. Apollo opened his eyes finally, slowly, blinking, to find himself gazing into Sheba's face. Her expression reflected how he felt. Confused.  
  
"What in Kobol's name happened?" The captain turned towards the voice as a hand grasped his shoulder. It was Boomer, looking very concerned.  
  
"I . . . I'm not sure. Sheba?" He pulled back, releasing her, but still gazing into her eyes. "Were you there? Did you see it?"  
  
Sheba swallowed and nodded.  
  
She had had the same experience. How had he known?  
  
Everything was still hazy, vague. Apollo looked at the commander. "What happened?"  
  
"You touched the plaque," Adama said, frowning as he studied his son, convincing himself that he was all right, "and then you and Sheba went rigid for several microns -- like you had received a shock. Then you relaxed and were just staring at the probe, unresponsive, for at least two centons. Sheba was the same, holding you, but staring off vacantly."  
  
"All readings from the probe," said Dr. Wilker insistently, "are unchanged. Whatever happened was *not* caused by the craft."  
  
Apollo shifted his gaze back to their visitor from Earth. "Yes. . . it was," he said.  
  
  
"What?" said Boomer and Tigh, almost simultaneously. "Is it dangerous?" asked Tigh, looking at Wilker.  
  
"No, no," answered Sheba. "It wasn't the probe itself, but a message being passed through it."  
  
"What do you mean?" Adama looked puzzled, thoughtful, as if he were on the verge of understanding.  
  
"Father, it's a long, long story... but..." Apollo looked at Sheba. "you must believe us. When we met the Beings from the Ship of Lights, we were given much more encoded information than we could remember at that time, or afterwards...Right now... right now, Sheba and I...it happened again... it did. We visited..."   
"We were taken for a ride..." Sheba said.  
"...By the Ship of Lights' Beings, to Earth... We've seen Earth!"  
Adama could only stare at the two. "That's a story I'd like to hear later," he said after a long silence. He placed his hands on the two young warriors' shoulders, gazing piercingly at each. "What have you seen?"  
"We've seen Earth." Apollo said. "We know it's out there. Some of the details I can remember very vividly; others are clouded. But we do know one thing."  
  
"That the Beings have sent us this probe as a. . ." Sheba paused, searching for the right word, "a gift, I guess, to let us know that Earth awaits us."  
  
"A gift?" asked Tigh. His face reflected confused disbelief.  
  
"Yes," said Apollo. "Or maybe as a Messenger," he said, smiling at the reference that only Sheba would understand. "I don't know how it happened. I don't know what it's original course or position was . . .The Beings . . ." He paused as he searched his mind for the right words. "I can't explain it, but I know that we were meant to find it." Apollo's smiled widened.  
  
"So, if what you're saying is true . . ." Adama considered the situation for a moment, then nodded to himself. "If what you say is true, that perhaps something or someone altered the probes course, as you seem to be implying - so that we would encounter it -- then we can't judge Earth's relative position or distance based off of its velocity or coordinates when we intercepted it," Adama said.  
  
"That may be true," said Sheba, "but it is meant as a sign that we are on the right course."  
  
"A beacon, perhaps, beckoning us onward. . ." added Apollo. A phrase came to his mind. "Onward to the skies of the future, full speed to new Kobol's dawn. . ." he whispered to himself.  
  
Everyone stared at the Earth craft in silence, feeling a renewed sense of awe. Finally, Adama looked at both Apollo and Sheba. "How much do you remember?"  
  
"Parts are very clear. And some things I didn't *see,* but just *know.*"  
  
"What do you mean?" asked Adama.  
  
"Well," Apollo said, "I know that Earth has forgotten about its origins. The evidence remains - ancient civilizations' records all over the planet. Complex buildings and structures, underground tunnel systems, drawings and dead languages - all containing the truth, but they simply lost the references to be able to decode any of it properly. Many civilizations have risen and fallen . . . and cataclysms of planetary porportions have buried past generations' knowledge . . . they have just forgotten. With no parameters to decode the legends, the records remain lost to them. They have no memories, now. . . no memories of the Thirteenth Tribe."  
  
"But the pyramids, Apollo!" Sheba was radiating delight. "I saw them! They have Pyramids -- and a Sphinx -- that look just like the ones on Kobol!"  
  
"Yes . . ." said Apollo. The vision of Leo still shone in his mind, filling him with a warmth. Hope. "As He's the Lord of His Sunwheel . . ." His voice caught in his throat, and he stopped.  
  
"He is the Hand of The Father where all life rides on. . ." Sheba whispered, continuing the phrase. Her eyes sparkled with tears when she gazed up at Apollo again.  
  
"Then I suggest," said Adama, bringing them all back to the present moment, "we give Wilker and his team the space they need to examine the probe, while you and Sheba make a full report on what you remember. This will be invaluable for our records. You can use my office." ." It was only with great effort, however, that Adama was able to contain his emotions and maintain his professional demeanor.  
  
Wilker and Tigh exchanged glances. The scientist had been shaking his head throughout. Yet, the detail and certainty with which Apollo and Sheba spoke made it difficult to totally dismiss their claims. Tigh, also, was torn between disbelief and amazement. Boomer and Athena, on the other hand, had watched and listened in wonderment and awe. They believed. They had both been present at the evening dinner when the trio - Apollo, Sheba, and Starbuck - had suddenly recited the coordinates for Earth. They did not question, now, the statements they made.  
As Adama motioned for everyone to leave, Wilker, despite the mystical revelations from Apollo and Sheba, looked more than pleased that he would finally be allowed to continue his work, unencumbered by spectators.  
  
  
***********************  
  
He was winded, feeling the exertion, as he pulled himself up the steep, rocky path. Almost there, he thought, as he paused and inhaled slowly, deeply, feeling the air fill his lungs and press against his chest. He exhaled gradually, completely. After several more breaths, he felt the dizziness from the high altitude receding, and he felt strong enough to finish his ascent. Looking up, he could see the trail disappear over a rocky ridge, the final leg of his journey to the summit. Behind him, the path wove back and forth across the alpine meadow, around the delicate grasses and clusters of flowers. He had left the shade and fresh scents of the coniferous forest over a centar ago. But although the sun shone down, the air was crisp and chilly. The temperature would quickly dip even lower, now that the light was beginning to fade.  
  
Pulling the collar of his flight jacket around his neck, Starbuck continued upward, taking broad steps up the trail, which was steep, despite the winding switchbacks. After a few more centons, he saw the crest, the summit. The view of the snow-spotted and rocky mountain face gave way to an endless expanse of sky, so blue, laced with long wisps of clouds and with the telltale tinges of pink beginning to wash into the edges. Over the distant ridges of other ranges, he could see where the flat plain of the valley merged with the horizon, so far away.   
  
He was standing at top of the world.   
  
Starbuck sat down on the rocky ground and just stared, enraptured by the beauty and the solitude. It was so quiet, so still. The cry of a bird of prey could be heard in the distance, but little else broke the silence. The breeze was gentle but held a chilly bite to it.   
  
The sun was sinking behind the ridge to his right. The sky was darkening into the purple of dusk, and the fading orb lit the sky with its deep reds and oranges. So quickly now, the sun disappeared. As the darkness slowly descended, Starbuck gazed all around him, feeling the tranquility of the moment, savoring it, drawing it inward. Clinging to it. It was so calm, so peaceful, so vastly beautiful. Timeless and limitless.  
  
He knew it. He was on Earth.  
  
The light of day gave way to a brilliant star field above, different than how it appeared from within his viper or even from the Celestial Dome. It had been so long, so long . . . since he had seen the stars from Caprica. The stars twinkled through the atmosphere, as if in greeting.   
  
He closed his eyes, feeling so peaceful, unlike anything he could remember. Then he felt a chill. And he knew, regretfully, that it was time. Time to let go. Time to go back. The chill came not from the cold night air but from within. He fought it back, trying to reclaim the serenity that had filled him all day, as he had made this journey. Alone, but not alone. He could not explain it to himself, but from the beginning, he had felt . . . a presence. Familiar at first. He could have sworn he had felt both Apollo and Sheba. Later, the feeling had become more of a vague sensation of . . . security. He did not know how else to describe it.   
  
He looked around to savor the moment one last time, but it was too late. The chill of the night had faded. The wind had ceased. He felt disconnected. He was enveloped in nothingness.  
  
He squeezed his eyes tightly shut again and tried to just be, but a wave of deep sadness kept lapping at him. Had it been real? It had felt so real, so real. But it had to have been a dream. A dream, nothing else. Earth did not exist for them yet. But . . .what did? He could not remember. All of the visions that kept flitting in and out of his mind had a surreal feel. He could not remember which were reality and which were not. An edge of panic was seeping in.  
  
He tried to relax, to just breath, to recall the last image from the dream's journey. Did it matter if it were real or not? It had felt real, and it was a part of him, now.   
  
The panic had abated. But he could sense the old, familiar fears just beyond his reach, like an awaiting predator.  
  
  
Eventually, he became aware of the firmness beneath him. He was lying down. In a bed. Where? His eyelids were still too heavy to open. So he listened. Too quiet to be the billet, so where? His mind still stubbornly refused to reveal anything; he could not remember where he had been or what had been happening.   
  
The sheets were soft and warm against his skin. And he heard voices now, but he could not focus on the words, not yet. He tried to move, and for the first time, he felt the pain, the familiar biting ache in his back and the throbbing in his head. He moaned and tried to open his eyes. The light was too bright, too bright. It sent a wave of pain through his temples.  
  
"Can you hear me?"  
  
Who? He opened his eyes just enough to let his eyelashes shield him from the light, blinked several times, then closed them again. He had seen a face, a familiar face. Doctor Salik. So he was in the lifestation. His mind spit out that information, but nothing else. He still could not think of a reason *why* he would be there. Except for the pain. The throbbing had localized itself to the left side of his face, and his back was strained and tense.  
  
"What's going on?" he heard himself asking, his voice a ragged whisper.  
  
"Just lie still," the doctor said. "You've been under sedation for a day, so it will take a little time for things to make sense."  
  
Yeah, an understatement, Starbuck thought to himself, eyes still closed. He felt like he had a hangover. And his face hurt. Maybe he'd been in another brawl in the OC. . . like that time when the joking between some pilots and security guards had gotten out of hand. The blackshirts had no sense of humor. Reese, especially, had acted like -  
  
Reese. The memory came crashing back to him. Reese. He had shot him. The panic burst from its hiding place and gripped him tightly.  
  
"Oh, frak! Oh, frak!" Starbuck's eyes snapped open, and he tried to sit up.  
  
"Calm down! It's all right." The doctor's strong hands eased him back down, held him against the bed. "Take it easy!"  
  
"No. Oh, God, no!" A cramp in his back kept him from trying to sit up again. "Oh. . . frak!"  
  
"Starbuck, it's okay!" Cassie's voice. "Everything's okay!"  
  
"But -- Reese! Oh, God. . . What have I done?" The image of the guard, the look of shock on his face as the blue beam penetrated his chest and knocked him down, was burning in Starbuck's mind. Kept repeating.  
  
"Reese is fine. Reese is fine." Cassie said softly but insistently. She was bending over him. She put one hand under his left ear and brushed the other over his right cheek, through his hair, trying to calm him.  
  
"No! I shot him! Shot him! I didn't mean to . . ." The panic washed back a bit, just a bit, as he remembered, randomly, more of the details. He lay staring into the medtech's face, still gasping, still feeling the awful horror.  
  
"Take it easy. Calm down." Her voice was gentle and soothing. "Reese is fine. Reese is fine."  
  
The words finally penetrated.  
  
"He's fine?" He did not dare believe, not yet.   
  
"The laser was set on stun," said a different, familiar voice. Apollo. Starbuck turned his head to his left to see the captain, Sheba, and Boomer.  
  
"Stun? Oh, God. . . then he's not. . .?" The gasping turned into long, deep breaths. Relief struggled with disbelief. Confusion still dominated.  
  
  
"No, he's fine." Apollo smiled.  
  
Starbuck closed his eyes and sank back into the pillow. "Oh, Lords. . ." He tried to absorb the information, to let it replace the fear from believing the worst had happened.  
  
"How do you feel?" Sheba asked eventually.  
  
"I don't know," he answered, opening his eyes and turning his head to look at her. "Everything is so confusing and muddled. I mean, I had the most vivid -- dream, I guess. But I don't really remember what's happened." He looked back to Dr. Salik. "How long have I been out?"  
  
"You were sedated for a day." Salik went on to explain why. Cassie had to smile when Starbuck ran a hand up through his hair as the doctor described the procedure. Salik ended by saying, "It's not surprising that your memory has been affected, and I can't tell you when or how much you'll be able to remember. Maybe all, maybe none, or maybe bits and pieces over time." Salik glanced at his chronometer and frowned. "You'll have to excuse me now," he said. "Unfortunately, I am required to inform Chief Opposer Solon that you're awake."   
  
"The chief opposer?" Starbuck tried to sit up, then sank back down again, grimacing from the muscle spasms.   
  
Salik glanced at the disapproving looks Apollo, Sheba, and Boomer were giving him. "Look, Lieutenant," he said, "I'm sorry to have to drop this on you so soon, but Solon was very insistent. He made it quite clear that I *had* to inform him as soon as you awoke." Salik paused, arms crossed and lips pursed as he studied his patient for a moment.  
  
"What's he talking about?" Starbuck asked, his voice rising as he stared at his friends.  
  
"Starbuck," Apollo said softly, "take it easy. The meeting with Solon is standard procedure when a weapon is fired and a civilian -- in this case, a Council security officer -- is involved. And we --"  
  
"Lieutenant," Salik interjected, "while I must inform the C.O. that you're awake, by no means do I have to let him speak with you at this moment. I can refuse on the grounds that you are not yet stable enough, mentally, to be questioned." He cast a look at the others.  
  
"Doctor," Apollo said, giving him an intent gaze, "I'm surprised that you would even consider letting one of your patients be questioned so soon after waking up -"  
  
"Trust me. The chief opposer and I had a lengthy discussion about this." Salik shook his head, remembering that interaction, it seemed. "And you're correct. I would never permit such an interview, if I thought it would negatively affect any patient of mine . . ." He paused, switching his focus to Starbuck, who looked confused and tense. "However, Lieutenant, the truth is that I can't guarantee what or how much you'll remember now or later. My professional evaluation is that you are stable enough at this time to speak with him - as much as I dislike the thought of formal interrogations taking place here in the lifestation." Salik sighed. "So I'll leave it up to you. Do you want to talk with him now . . . or wait until later?"   
  
Starbuck looked glum. "Lords, I might as well get it over with . . ."  
Salik nodded. "That might be a wise decision. While he did not say it in so many words, I got the impression from Solon that any delays in being permitted to speak with you would be met with strong opposition, if not legal action. And it's my personal opinion that you don't want to face the C.O if he's already in a negative frame of mind. . . Now, if you'll excuse me?" The doctor gave a bemused look and headed for his office.  
  
"Wonderful, just wonderful . . ." Starbuck muttered, eyes closed.  
  
"How much do you remember," asked Boomer quietly, "about what happened in Beta Bay?"  
  
"I can remember parts of it," he said. He glanced briefly at his friends, then turned his gaze to the wall. "Frak, it feels so much like a dream -- a nightmare! -- that I'm not sure if I can trust my memory. . ." His voice faded, and all remained silence for a moment. Finally, he glanced once more at his friends. "I'm not sure I can think straight, yet . . . my mind's still on this dream . . . this -- it had to be a hallucination! -- I had while I was unconscious . . ."  
  
"Hallucination?" asked Apollo gently, frowning a bit. "What are you talking about?"  
  
Starbuck sighed. "I had this dream that I was on Earth, but it was so vivid, so real, and, and *long.*" He went on to describe the experience, the images of his mountain journey. He was so involved as he spoke, the images still fresh in his mind, that he did not notice the growing excitement in the quick looks that Apollo and Sheba exchanged several times. For Starbuck, it all remained so concrete, as if he had only just returned. He still struggled to remember that it could not have been real. Not possibly.  
  
"It must have been a side effect of the sedative," Cassie said as he lapsed into silence again. She looked puzzled. "Although, usually, you would not expect dreams while sedated. Usually, the patient just wakes up with no memories from that period."  
  
"Starbuck," Apollo said, glancing again at Sheba as he spoke, "I think there's something we need to talk about -"  
  
Brisk movement through the doors to the lifestation interrupted the captain. Solon approached, looking serious and intent. He nodded to everyone. "Good morning," he said, ignoring the cautionary looks from the three warriors. Instead, he got straight to the point. "I have some business to conduct, so I will have to ask you to give us some privacy, please."  
  
  
"As his commanding officer, I'd like to be present," Apollo said, frowning and confronting Solon's authoritative stance with his captain's demeanor as he noted the anxious look that crossed his friend's face.   
Solon shrugged. "That's acceptable. But I must ask the others to leave."  
  
"Come on," Boomer said to Sheba, deciding it would be better not to argue with the chief opposer. "We'd better get back to our duties, anyway." He gave Starbuck a sympathetic look. "We'll check in later."  
  
As Cassie arranged the bed so that the lieutenant could sit up more comfortably, Solon pulled up a chair and sat down. Apollo continued to stand, arms crossed, his stance clearly meant to be protective.  
  
The chief opposer waited until Cassie had moved off before giving Starbuck a steady but impassive gaze. "Now, Lieutenant," he said, "I understand that you have been under both physical and mental duress over the past several sectons. Dr. Salik has explained that to me. But," he continued, "I would like to hear your point of view about what happened between you and Sergeant Reese, and why. Firing a laser, whether by accident or intentionally, is a serious matter."  
  
"He knows that," Apollo said firmly. A brief flicker of annoyance crossed Solon's face, but he kept his gaze on the lieutenant, ignoring the captain's words.  
  
  
"Yes, I know . . ." said Starbuck, his voice a whisper.  
  
"Tell me what happened," Solon said.  
  
Starbuck looked from the captain to the chief opposer. Then closed his eyes to concentrate. After nearly a centon, he opened his eyes and stared at the foot of his bed. "I was taking Copernicus to the landing bay so that he could examine a viper," he explained slowly. "It had something to do with the research he's working on for Dr. Wilker. When we got to the bay, Reese and another guard were there." He shook his head. "I don't know what in Hades is going on there, but it must have been important . . ."  
  
"I'll explain it later," the captain said, gently.  
  
Starbuck frowned but continued. "Anyway, I tried to ask Reese what was going on, but he acted like a -" He glanced at Solon. "He did his best to be uncooperative."  
  
"Did Sergeant Reese threaten you with his laser?" the chief opposer asked, his voice still neutral.  
  
Starbuck let out a long breath, frowning, as he tried to remember the scene. "He pointed his laser at me, yes," he said finally, "but it was more annoying than threatening." He paused to see if Solon had any more questions. When he remained silent, the lieutenant continued. "I didn't want to fight. I tried to avoid it."  
  
"Then why did you knock Sergeant Reese to the ground?"  
  
Starbuck felt his heart thumping against his chest as he tried to remember what had happened next. The first part had been so clear -- entering the bay, seeing Reese, the verbal disagreement. But then the remembrance fragmented. He knew he had not wanted to fight, had tried to avoid it. So what had gone wrong? Finally, he saw an image of his friend, hands over his ears, eyes wide with fear. "Copernicus," he said. "He was frightened by the arguing. He started screaming." He stopped, and the scene played through his mind. "Lords," he whispered finally, remembering the intense feelings of the moment, "I panicked. I thought Reese might hurt Copernicus, so I . . . I attacked him. I did attack him . . ."  
  
Apollo approached and put a reassuring hand on Starbuck's shoulder.  
  
Solon was nodding, and the lieutenant could not tell exactly what that meant. "Go on," said the chief opposer. "How did you get the laser?"  
  
Starbuck concentrated, but he could not get beyond the final image of the conflict that was frozen in his mind. The fight itself was a blank. "I'm not sure," he said at last.  
  
"Did you point it at Sergeant Reese?"  
  
"Well, obviously, I did!" Starbuck snapped, the frustration building.  
  
  
Solon ignored the outburst. "Did you intend to shoot Sergeant Reese, or not?"  
  
"Wait a micron!" Apollo said, starting at the sudden accusatory question. "You're pushing it too far, now."  
  
"Captain," Solon said, his voice even and unemotional, "if you do not allow me to do my job, I'll have to ask you to leave -- "  
  
"I -" Starbuck interrupted. He could not picture the scene and was breathing hard as frustration turned into a combination of anger and anxiety. Did he? Did he deliberately shoot Reese? He wondered if he would or could. He did not think so. But it had happened, somehow. It had happened. Had he been so angry that it buried all reason and logic? Had he lost all self-control . . .like Captain Connly? Starbuck gripped the sheets tightly as he balled his hands into fists.  
  
"It's okay, Starbuck," Apollo said, tightening his grip on his friend's shoulder and glaring at the chief opposer.  
  
"Why did you shoot him?" Solon's voice had taken on a hard edge, and he ignored the captain.   
  
Starbuck put his hands to his temples and closed his eyes. He could not concentrate. "I don't know!"  
  
"He was angry. He panicked - those are his own words. Why are you pressing him this way?" Apollo clamped his jaw to keep from raising his voice. He knew he had to remain calm if he wanted to be able to help Starbuck, but the direction of the questions and Solon's tone seemed overly intimidating. "It sounds like you're pressing for a confession to premeditated attempted-termination here. For Sagan's sake, he just woke up and hasn't had time to even get his bearings!"  
  
"Captain," Solon said, his voice containing an angry edge now, "yes. I'm pressing. For the truth - confession or plea of innocence. And if you don't understand that it's formal procedure according to the Code, then perhaps you should refer back to your studies at the academy. Otherwise, I'll have to consider another possibility - that you are asking for special considerations, if you should wish me to treat your friend differently than any other person who found himself in a similar situation."  
  
"I -" Apollo glanced down at Starbuck's pained expression and stopped. "All right, " he said with a forced calmness, "I'm not asking for any special considerations. Except those due to *anyone* who's just awakened after being unconscious for a day."  
  
"I am aware of the circumstances," Solon said, staring at the captain without blinking. "Now, either permit me to proceed, or I will have to ask you to leave because of your interference."  
  
Apollo took a deep breath, but said nothing further. It took every mililitron of will power he had to pull back and resume his official role of observer. His hand, however, still rested on his friend's shoulder.  
  
"Lieutenant," Solon said, ignoring the captain's icy stare and continuing as before, "did you intend to shoot Sergeant Reese?"  
  
Did he? Did he? Starbuck was inhaling in deep breathes. His mind felt frozen.   
  
"You panicked, and in your fear for Copernicus, you shot Sergeant Reese," the chief opposer stated.  
  
Had he? His heart was thumping in his ears. How could he not remember that, unless . . .? He felt like he was pounding his head against a stone wall. And he felt the panic ready to explode.  
  
"Based on the visual evidence and witnesses' reports, Lieutenant," Solon said, his voice cold now, "one would tend to conclude that you shot Sergeant Reese in the heat of the moment. If you cannot give me a reason to believe otherwise, I will be forced to make my decision based off that and that alone. So I ask you again. Did you intend to shoot Sergeant Reese?" His tone was sharp, accusatory. He shot a warning glance at Apollo, who looked ready to intervene again.  
  
Starbuck dropped his hands and glared at Solon. "No, I didn't frakking intend to shoot him!" He stopped, surprised. The thoughts had clicked, and he remembered, remembered the pain, falling on the laser, being jerked around by Reese. And then Reese had grabbed the gun. "He frakking tried to pull the laser out of my hand, and I couldn't let go! I couldn't let go!"  
  
"Starbuck, take it easy." Apollo was still glaring at Solon, though.  
  
The chief opposer seem almost pleased, however. "So. . . Reese made a move first. . . " he spoke slowly, pausing and adding mellifluously, "And it is your statement that you didn't intend to shoot him. That the weapon discharge was unintentional."  
"Yes!" Starbuck shouted in unrestrained anger.  
"It's all right," Solon said, rising to his feet. "I apologize, Lieutenant, for being so insistent, but I needed you to remember the details." He paused, watching the lieutenant's anger slowly recede a bit, waiting until Starbuck looked directly at him again. He met Apollo's icy glare with a faint smile, as well. "I think you'll agree that there is a big difference between intentionally firing the laser -- like it looked -- and the laser simply discharging when Sergeant Reese pulled on it --which is what I believe happened."  
  
"Yeah, I do remember . . ." Starbuck ran a hand through his hair and sank back into the pillows, grimacing from the tension and cramping that the frustration had masked.  
  
"It was just too ambiguous," Solon explained, looking from the Starbuck to Apollo, "until I got the report from Copernicus. His report gave me, indeed, a fair idea of what had actually happened. But, to go by his testimony alone -"  
  
"Look -" Apollo said as he saw Starbuck's face go red.  
  
"Hold on." Solon held up a hand and cut off the captain's protest. "I've read the med reports about his... his... abilities to memorize and reproduce events. Yet, I had to pressure you, Lieutenant, because I needed you to confirm his 'interpretation' of the incident. And you did."  
"So what does this mean?" asked Apollo, noting that Starbuck looked ready to speak his mind. He squeezed his friend's shoulder and flashed him a warning look. He wanted to divert any inappropriate comments from him, because the captain, as well as Starbuck, could plainly see that Solon had not believed Copernicus's report, even though it was more accurate and detailed, it turned out, than that of any of the other witnesses. However, nothing would be gained by confronting him about it now.  
  
"It means that the matter is closed," Solon answered. "We'll hold the official hearing later, but I will go ahead and make my report to the commander -- that any and all actions to be taken against the two officers involved will be at the discretion of their commanders." The chief opposer gave Starbuck a cautious but formal smile. "Lieutenant, I do apologize. And I hope that you are soon feeling better."  
  
Starbuck did not smile in return. "Yeah, thanks."   
  
Apollo watched as Solon exited the lifestation, strolling out as purposefully as he had entered, without looking back at them. The captain turned to his friend, who lay quietly, grimacing and groaning faintly, eyes closed, looking exhausted. He needed to talk to him about the probe, needed to explore his 'dream' some more, but perhaps that should wait. "Hey, buddy," he said, "I'd better get going."  
  
  
Starbuck gave him an unhappy look. "But that'll leave me stranded here --again! This is getting kind of old," he said, grunting from the pain as he shifted in the bed.  
  
"Don't worry," said a voice. It was Salik, who was approaching with a smile on his face, Starbuck noted, the smug kind of smile that doctors wore when they were about to inflict some type of torture, under the guise of 'treatment.' His fear was soon confirmed. "Unfortunately, Lieutenant, that fight, as you know, re-damaged your back muscles. So we now need at least three more therapy sessions before I can declare you physically fit for duty again."  
  
"Wonderful," Starbuck sighed. "But when can I get out of here?"  
  
"That depends," Salik said, looking more serious. "Probably later today."  
  
"'Probably'? But you're the doctor!" Starbuck said with unconcealed impatience.  
  
"Actually, that decision is not up to me, this time," Salik said. "Now, Captain, if you'll excuse us?"  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" He looked over at Apollo, since the doctor seemed unwilling to elaborate. Apollo's face revealed that he knew the answer. Starbuck glared at him. "Tell me, please!"  
  
"The commander has decided that you should stay right here," he pointed a finger towards the floor to indicate the lifestation, "until you've spoken with Tarnia. Professionally. She'll determine when you'll be released."  
  
"Oh," was all Starbuck said. He watched as Apollo walked towards the door. "Apollo!" he called out, finally.  
  
"Yes?" Apollo turned back, pausing.  
  
"Thanks..." He wanted to say more but could not find the words. However, his tender blue eyes spoke of faith, commitment and friendship, vowing -- to the one person closest to the brother and the family he had never had -- the loyalty and the attachment that he rarely displayed or admitted to anyone else.  
Apollo just smiled. No words were needed. Before he left silently, his eyes returned the same avowal.  
  
  



	11. Chapter Twelve and Epilogue

Chapter 12  
  
He had fallen asleep during the treatment. As he awoke, he wondered how he could have possibly been tired after having already slept for an entire day. But he definitely had that drowsy feeling of slowly returning to reality. He was still lying on his stomach, but, he noted, the hot compresses from the treatment had been replaced by a blanket. He wondered for how long he had been asleep. All was quiet, and he heard no one. A glance around also revealed no one within his line of sight. He wondered, with growing irritation, if he would be able to roll over. Maneuvering around was not easy, at the moment; although, both the treatment and the medication Salik had given him seemed to have left his muscles pleasantly numb.  
  
Eyes closed, he was contemplating the effort it would take to turn over without getting entangled in the blanket, when he heard movement. Peering through partly opened lids, and catching a glimpse of the crisp, new medical tunic, he recognized the his visitor before she spoke.  
  
"Need some help?" Tarnia asked.  
  
"With what?" He asked.  
  
"Would you like to roll over?"  
  
"Just how long have you been watching me?" Starbuck frowned up at Tarnia, then tried to ease himself over onto his right side. He made it onto the shoulder, but could not balance as not-so-numb muscles protested. Tarnia helped him on over onto his back. "Thanks," he said through gritted teeth.  
  
"Just for a bit, in answer to your question," Tarnia said, as the lieutenant pulled himself upright. She handed him another pillow, helping him to get settled as she spoke. "I suppose you know why I'm here?"  
  
  
Starbuck sighed. "Yeah, I do. Apollo told me. I'm stuck here until you think I'm fit to be unsupervised again." He gave a thin smile.  
  
"More or less, correct," she said. "We've got a lot to talk about, and everyone's concerned about the gaps in your memory. Especially a rather important incident that you have apparently not remembered, yet."  
  
Starbuck's smile faded. "What incident?"  
  
"I can't tell you that. I need you to try to remember, and I'll help you." Tarnia had pulled a chair over and sat down. She placed an object on the floor, as well, but Starbuck did not notice. "This might take only a few centons, or it could take longer. Are you ready?"  
  
"Hm, as ready as I'll ever be," he answered.  
  
"First, tell me how you feel," Tarnia said.  
  
"I've been better."  
  
"Okay, now tell me more. What are you feeling right now?" Tarnia gave him a stern stare. "And be honest. Tell me anything that's on your mind."  
  
"I think I've seen enough of this place to last the next several yahrens. Maybe I should transfer my gear here."  
  
"The longer you avoid the question," Tarnia said, her voice calm, "the longer this will take."  
  
"I'm frustrated!" Starbuck said, finally. "I can't believe that I have to deal with this blasted back for another secton, now, and then I'm told that I can't even leave here until -- until. . . when?"  
  
"Probably later today, okay?" She said quietly. "Depends on how willing you are to work with me and how much progress we make."  
  
"Sounds like extortion to me," Starbuck grumbled.  
  
"Commander's orders, remember? I think he knows you pretty well."  
  
"Yeah, right. Fine" He closed his eyes.  
  
"Just so you know," Tarnia said, "this is all confidential. The only thing that I actually tell the commander is whether or not you are ready to return to service. That's all."  
  
"Fine. Go ahead," he said, eyes still closed.  
  
"Do you remember why you went to see Copernicus at such an early centar?"  
  
Starbuck ran a hand down his face. "No."  
  
"What do you remember about that night? The first thing."  
  
"Copernicus asking to see a viper," Starbuck said slowly. He glanced quickly at Tarnia, then stared at nothing. "I remember . . . I'm not sure. It's like I was waking up, and I was with Copernicus. He was asking if I was better, and then he started talking about a viper."  
  
"You're afraid, aren't you?"  
  
"Who, me? Of what?"  
  
"Starbuck, if we are to make any progress, you must stop holding back." Tarnia watched his jaw tighten. "You have to accept what you are feeling. Don't fight it. Just go with it." She paused, then continued. "It's only natural that you would be frightened by the gaps in your memory. I'd imagine that it bothers you a great deal. But remember also," Tarnia said, waiting for him to make eye contact. When he glanced at her again, she went on. "You've got a medical reason for the incomplete memory. You're *not* going crazy."  
  
"Well, it feels like it!" Starbuck said. "I can't figure out anymore what was real and what was a dream. And the dreams seem as real as anything . . .but my head tells me that it's impossible."  
  
"Well," Tarnia said softly, "that's why I'm here. To help you sort through it."  
  
  
Starbuck nodded slightly. "Okay, okay . . . I'll try."  
  
"Good! Then let me ask you this. What's the last thing you remember before 'waking up' with Copernicus? Have you thought about it yet?"  
  
"No," Starbuck said quietly, "I've been trying to not think about it, actually."  
  
"What happens when you do think about it?"  
  
"I end up. . . well, I keep remembering Reese. It sort of blocks out everything else. Like I run into a wall when I think about that night, and it throws me back to. . . to. . ."  
  
"To what?"  
  
Starbuck took a deep breath. "To this dream, this dream that I've been having. . ."  
  
"Can you tell me about it?"  
  
The lieutenant's heart was racing. He stared, unblinking at the bed sheets, jaw tight.  
  
"You know," Tarnia said, "Dr. Salik told me that the dreams you were having were probably triggered by the brain trauma. They should get better now. But you need to accept them, deal with them, before you can get past them."  
  
"I'm not sure," he said, at last, his voice a whisper, "that I can describe it. It - it's more just feelings and images."  
  
"Just do your best. But you will need to think about it. Relive it, if possible. And tell me what you see and feel. Just start anywhere. And take your time." Starbuck looked at Tarnia and, for the first time, she could read the true emotions on his face. The mask was down, and she could see the fear in his eyes.  
  
"You know," he said, "this makes walking into a Cylon baseship seem like a training mission. . ." But he closed his eyes once more and, for the first time, sought out the visions that had been haunting him. And he tried to describe what he saw, from the intense feelings of being trapped by Sherok to the incredible fear as he felt himself aiming the laser at Apollo, as he had actually done the time when he was under suspicion of having murdered his rival, Ortega, during his aborted attempt to flee from facing the tribunal. But in the dream, unlike the reality, he pulled the trigger. . .  
  
The images came at random, in more and more detail. Starbuck described what he could, often pausing for long periods to search for the most accurate word. Finally, the memories dissolved into the scene on Caprica, in the Thorn Forest. The childhood visions. He stopped and pulled back. He had never before consciously recalled the early morning raid. But it was there, now. He had relived it so many times in his dreams that he knew it was there. "No, oh, frak . . .I can't." He looked at Tarnia with a desperate, silent plea in his eyes.   
  
"Starbuck, you need to," Tarnia said, her voice quiet.   
  
He looked away. He was trembling, but the words came finally, piece by piece. "Umbra. It's almost morning. The Cylons are attacking. I . . . I must be about three. I'm running. The ground is shaking from the Cylon blasts. God, it stinks! The burned grass and. . . and dead bodies. Someone picks me up. Oh, frak . . ." The horrid image played through his mind. For several centons no words would come, then he said, "They shot . . . her." He felt numb.  
  
"Who?" Tarnia spoke in a whisper. Leaning forward, she put a hand on Starbuck's arm.  
  
He turned terrified eyes in her direction. "My mother. . ."  
  
  
For a moment, Tarnia saw her own memories of the destruction of her school and the death of her brother, finding him, seeing his crumpled body in the ruins. She pushed her remembrances aside, though. She had a job to do. "Starbuck, that's horrible," she said. "I know how you feel . . . but, the pain will ease once you release it along with the repressed memories." She paused. Starbuck was staring straight ahead, his features rigid. "You saw the Cylons kill your mother," she said, reinforcing the images she knew he had been avoiding.   
"Yes. . ."  
  
Tarnia watched the lieutenant fight back the emotions. "Don't," she said. "Don't resist the feelings. Let them out. Let them out. The only way to move beyond this horrible moment is for you to accept it . . . deal with it. This memory has been buried for over thirty yahrens -- but it has never been forgotten. You must face it."  
  
Starbuck looked wildly around, his mind lost in the remembrance. Then he threw his hands over his face. The tears came with a sob and an angry shout. "Those frakking bastards! They shot her! Shot her . . . Frakking Cylons . . ."  
  
For a long while that stretched on for nearly 30 centons, Tarnia said nothing, just letting him experience the emotions. Eventually, he lay with eyes closed, breathing in slow, deep breaths, the intensity having faded. She considered whether she should stop, whether she should give him more time to process the memories. No, she decided. Being confining to the lifestation was not going to help anything, but she was not going to authorize his release until they had made more progress. She thought about the restraint the lieutenant had shown with Sergeant Reese, at least at first. He was stronger than even he realized. Better to continue on. "You're angry at the Cylons," she said. "Lords, aren't we all?"  
  
He glanced at her, looking weary. "Yes."  
  
"Is that the only reason you're angry?" She asked, probing again.  
  
"What do you mean?" He asked, confused.  
  
"Is there anything else that you are angry about?" When he gave her a blank look, she continued. "Is it only the outrage at the Cylons for killing your mother that you feel. . . or is there more to it?"  
  
"More? I don't know . . . I don't know, except . . ." Starbuck stared at the ceiling.  
  
"Except what?"  
  
"Except. . ." He paused, running a hand through his hair several times. "I just wish I knew more about my family. I never knew them, Can't remember anything about my mother or my -" He looked at her again, the anger flaring in his eyes.   
  
"Go on," Tarnia said.  
  
"I wonder where the frak my father was!" Starbuck pounded the sheets with his fist. "Why wasn't he there? Maybe he could have saved her. Maybe -" Starbuck stopped as he tried to sort out his thoughts, his feelings, his memories. Tarnia saw the confusion, the struggle as he tried to understand the feelings. Then she watched the comprehension burst through the mental disarray. His eyes went wide. "Oh, my Lords . . . Chameleon."  
  
"Chameleon?" she said quietly. "What about him?"  
  
Starbuck felt dizzy from the shock. He ran his hand down his face several times. "The Rising Star. The Pyramid games. He kept beating me. We went to dinner, and he kept asking me strange questions. He was trying to tell me . . .Oh, dear God. . ."  
  
"Tell you what?" she asked softly, waiting for the true reaction.   
  
"My father - he's my father!" He gulped from the intensity of his emotions.   
  
"Chameleon is your father," Tarnia said in affirmation.  
  
"Then why the frak didn't he *tell* me before?" Starbuck shouted. He stared piercingly at Tarnia. His face was red, the tendons in his neck bulging. Pure emotion, pure anger. Only his injury, she figured, kept him from jumping out of the biobed. He gripped his hair with both hands and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.   
  
"I know that this a huge shock to you," Tarnia said slowly. "But he must have had his reasons for . . . not telling -"   
  
"He frakking lied to me!"   
  
"I've spoken with him," she said softly. "He's very regretful--"  
  
"I. Do. Not. Care." He glared at Tarnia, spitting out the words. "He lied to me. I don't care." His voice was guttural, the words catching in his throat. He buried his face in his hands - as close to escape as he could manage, at the moment.   
  
Tarnia remained silent. Rational thought, she knew, would take time. Eventually, he would be able to deal with the truth, accept it. . . then forgiveness could follow, maybe even love. But not at this moment. For now, she had to let the emotions run their course. She watched as he squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the sheets with both hands. "I - do -not - care!" he hissed, barely audible.   
  
Unable to physically leave, he pulled himself inward. Starbuck finally fixed his gaze across the room, away from Tarnia, staring but not seeing. The panting, uneven breaths were the only outward indication of his anger. The reaction, she reflected, was not that different from Copernicus on sensory overload. Practically the same, in fact, she thought, as she considered all of the stress he had had to deal with in just this one discussion. Everyone had their limits; some, like Copernicus, just reached them much sooner.   
  
As the mostly silent but intense battle continued, Tarnia picked up the small object that she had brought with her and had placed on the floor. It was Copernicus' music device, and the idea had been his. Setting the volume on low, she activated the apparatus and held it on her lap, waiting. The strands of the piece that Copernicus had played for Starbuck the other night quietly emanated.   
  
After nearly forty centons, the lieutenant, finally seemed to regain some control, enough to allow himself to face Tarnia once more. As if breaking a trance, he suddenly pressed his palms against his eyes and squeezed them shut for a moment. Breathing in slow, deep breaths now, he finally glanced at her. Whether or not the music helped, she was not sure, but she had figured it was worth a try.  
  
Starbuck looked at the device, staring. "Why'd you bring that?" His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat.  
  
"Do you remember the music?"  
  
"Yeah . . . Copernicus played it for me."  
  
"He asked me to bring it with me. You see, he relies on music -- this piece, especially -- to help himself calm down. Or sometimes he just listens to it over and over. He says it brings peace to him."  
  
Starbuck said nothing, but he laid back against the pillows, looking exhausted, and closed his eyes once more.  
  
Tarnia waited for several more centons before speaking. "Do you remember what Chameleon said to you? About why he had not told you yet?"  
  
"Some felgercarb about trying to protect me!" Starbuck snapped, drilling Tarnia with an angry gaze. He looked away.  
  
"I've talked with Chameleon and your friends, and I think I understand why he did it, for better or for worse. In part, he *was* trying to protect you -"  
  
"How? By lying to me?"  
  
"No . . . by trying to choose the best time to tell you. But he also admitted to me that he was just plain scared. And yes, it was easier to not saying anything." Tarnia paused as the music reached a crescendo and the vibrant waves filled the air, even with the low volume. She noticed that he was staring at the device, even though his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. After a bit, she continued.   
  
"You know how it feels to be scared, don't you? Afraid of love . . . of the responsibilities, the intimacy and the vulnerability that commitments imply . . . you know that fear, don't you?"  
  
Starbuck swallowed hard, feeling the sting of the truth to her words. "Maybe . . ."  
  
"Perhaps you two are not that much different from each other," Tarnia, said, her voice serious, her tone pointed, even. "Perhaps you can know and understand you father's fears better than he understands them himself. If you know how it feels to be afraid of love."  
  
"I don't see how -" Starbuck choked back a sob. "I don't see any love if he couldn't tell me . . ."  
  
"Starbuck," Tarnia said, her tone more soothing now, "Chameleon regrets not telling you sooner. He says he made a mistake. A mistake," she repeated, urging him to listen and understand. "He knows now that it was the wrong thing to do."  
  
"He can go to Hades -" Starbuck stopped, the curse fading as his rational mind finally regained a foothold.   
  
"Look beyond the anger and the feelings of betrayal now," Tarnia said softly, almost in rhythm with the music. "He's your father, and you know it now. He's your father, and he'd like to talk to you."  
  
"He's my father. . ." Starbuck repeated the phrase in a whisper.  
  
"Yes. . . your father."  
  
Bitter anger visibly fought with the incomprehensible joy of the truth for the first time. The faintest of smiles broke through. "Oh, Lords . . . I don't know what to think or feel anymore."  
  
"Starbuck, he wants to talk to you. Are you up to it yet?"  
  
A look of anxiety crossed his face. "I don't know. I don't even know where to start!"  
  
"Maybe if you start with finding out what *really* happened that night on Caprica. And go from there."  
  
"I don't know . . ."  
  
Tarnia ignored the weak protest and rose to her feet, motioning at the entrance to the lifestation. She could see that the reluctance was more from a fear of dealing with more emotions than from his anger. After a moment, Chameleon entered hesitantly. Despite everything, despite the strong feelings of betrayal that stabbed at him, Starbuck broke out into a broad grin. Tarnia stepped back, setting the device on the bed stand, as the man slowly approached, twisting his hands nervously. Starbuck was still beaming.  
  
"Look, son . . ." Chameleon had used that phrase from the time they had first met. And he had used it many times since then. This time, the word rang through the air, highlighted by the soft strands of music.  
  
"Son . . ." Starbuck repeated, as if trying on the word for size. He was staring at the bed. His mind was slowly, slowly processing the truth. Eventually, he sifted his gaze to the man who now stood before him. "Father . . ." He said in an almost inaudible whisper.   
  
  
*************************  
  
They talked for over three centars. Emotions had ranged from loud, angry, hurtful words to laughter to unconcealed, uncontrolled tears. Gradually, Starbuck seemed to admit that he understood why Chameleon had withheld the truth from him. But understanding was not the same as forgiving, and both accepted that true forgiveness would take time. For now, they had established a truce, of sorts, knowing that the pain would take time to fade and heal. Starbuck had finally described his current feelings as a clashing blend of both an incredible happiness and a deep, bitter hurt - love and hate together.   
  
At last, reluctantly, Dr. Salik had requested that Chameleon take a break, as it was nearly sleep period. He was free to return in the morning, but, for now, he wanted to see his patient get some rest. After consulting with the doctor, Tarnia had told Starbuck that he would be released the next day, after a follow-up session and the promise that he would continue with the program until she was convinced that he was as healed as anyone could be, considering their circumstances. He had grumbled, but had been too exhausted to truly argue. And he had slept. For the first time in nearly two sectons, he had slept, free from medication and free from the dreams, a solid, long, restful sleep.  
  
He had not yet awakened, it seemed, when Cassie arrived for her shift the next morning. Intending to catch up on the files she had neglected in the past several days, she paused, a slight smile on her face, to gaze briefly at her sleeping friend. When she moved to brush an errant lock of hair across his forehead, though, a hand reached out to grasp hers. Cassie jumped, still remembering his panicked attack the other day. This time, however, his grip was firm but gentle, and he opened his eyes slowly to gaze at her.  
  
"You startled me," Cassie said as her racing heart slowed. She caught the penetrating look in his eyes before he looked away again. He still held her hand, though. "How do you feel?" she asked.  
  
"Like I've been through that high-g viper training about ten times."  
  
"You mean the simulator where you have to handle zero gravity and then accelerate until nearly blackout point?" Cassie squeezed his hand lightly, placing her other on top, as well, and gazed at him through the eyes of a close friend, not a medtech.  
  
"Yeah, that's the one." Starbuck glanced up into Cassie's face, then shifted his gaze again. He wanted to say something, she could tell, so she waited. After a moment, he pulled his hand back and stared down at his fingers. "Cass. . ." He stopped.  
  
  
"Take your time," she said softly. Cassie felt a stirring of unease, though, as he continued to stare away from her.  
  
"Cass," he said eventually, "you knew about Chameleon all along."  
  
"Yes, I did," she responded quietly.  
  
"You knew . . . why didn't you tell me?" He gave her a quick, pained look.  
  
"Starbuck, I promised Chameleon that I wouldn't. I -- I didn't see how going against Chameleon's wishes would help the situation." She put a hand on his arm, but he shifted away. Cassie bit her lip. "I never wanted to hurt you."  
  
"Look, my head knows that. It does. It knows you were caught in the middle. But. . ." He looked up into her eyes and finally held the gaze. "I . . . it still hurts. A lot."  
  
"Starbuck," she whispered, "I know. And you've still got a lot to deal with right now."  
  
He looked away again. "I just . . . I just need some time to figure it all out . . ."  
  
"Starbuck, it's okay." He did not see her chew her lip again before continuing. "I understand."  
  
Movement through the entrance caught their attention, and both looked up to see Apollo and Sheba. The relief the distraction brought was almost palpable as Starbuck broke out into a grin and focused on his visitors. Cassie nodded to the two, then moved off to return to her duties. The unease had swelled into a biting fear, but she pushed it back. She had known that her awkward position might be difficult for him to accept, but she had to trust that, with time, he would understand. If their relationship was as strong as she thought it was, then it would surmount this hurdle. If not, then, well . . . she shook off the thought and concentrated on her work.  
  
"How do you feel?" Apollo asked, stopping next to the biobed. Starbuck noted how close Sheba stood next to the captain, almost touching, but not quite.   
  
"Like I'm going stir crazy!" He pulled himself up to a sitting position, slowly, working through the stiffness and cramping. Had Sheba not been present, he would have gotten up right then and there. Instead, he kept the sheet carefully wrapped around him as he sat on the edge of the bed. "I *need* out of here."  
  
"Soon, buddy, soon," Apollo said, smiling. "Look, Father asked me to tell you some things, before Tarnia releases you. I know she's coming by soon, too."  
  
"Oh?" Starbuck raised an eyebrow at him.  
  
"First, your status -"  
  
"Status for duty?"  
  
"Yes. According to Dr. Salik, you will be physically fit to return to light duty in two more days."  
  
Starbuck sighed. "But?"  
  
"No 'buts,'" Apollo said. "Just a condition."  
  
"Which is . . .?" The lieutenant looked from Apollo to Sheba, puzzled a bit by the underlying feeling their looks kept conveying. He was missing something, he could tell, but what?  
  
"On the condition that you continue meeting with Tarnia until she terminates the sessions, and," Apollo pointed a finger at him, "if you miss even one, you'll be taken off the duty roster." The captain's smile had faded.  
  
"The commander's serious, isn't he?" Starbuck frowned and looked away.  
  
  
Apollo nodded. "Very. I know you're not aware of this, but your incident in the landing bay aroused some serious tensions between the warriors and the Council security. Starbuck," Apollo said, his expression solemn, "you know as well as I do how important it is to maintain solidarity in the Fleet. If the people perceive any kind of dissension among their protectors, it could jeopardize the fragile stability that exists right now. I mean, we've seen how easily peace can turn to chaos."  
  
Starbuck remembered that clearly. The riot aboard the Sagittarius had precipitated all that had happened to him in the past two sectons. He ran a hand through his hair. "So, there's more, isn't there?"  
  
Apollo handed Starbuck a compupad. "Father will be issuing the following statement later today about the landing bay incident. It's only a ship-wide announcement, and is not for the general populations, but I wanted you to read it first."  
  
Starbuck glanced at Apollo and Sheba, who still stood quietly in front of him, waiting, before he activated the small computer. He read the message silently as it scrolled up screen. "Both the Council and I consider it vital that the two forces -- Colonial warriors and Council security -- maintain proper and professional conduct at all times to ensure the safety of this Fleet. Most of you are aware that an altercation occurred in Beta Bay between Sergeant Reese and Lieutenant Starbuck that resulted in the discharge of a weapon. While the discharge was ruled accidental by Chief Opposer Solon, neither the Council nor I will tolerate such disorderly behavior. Both officers will be on restricted duty with no privileges for two sectons, confined to quarters when not on duty, and docked a third of their pay for the next two sectars." Starbuck let out a low whistle as he finished reading.   
  
"I'm sorry," Apollo said as the lieutenant handed him the compupad without a word. "But it was either that or explain -- in detail -- the medical reasons behind your actions. We figured you'd rather do it this way."  
  
Starbuck was staring at the floor. "Yeah, I guess I would." He glanced up, a bemused look on his face. "So, in other words, I should be in no rush to get out of here, because I'll just be confined to quarters for the next two days, anyway."  
  
Apollo nodded again. "That's true, but once you're allowed to return to duty, we've got something you'll want to see."  
  
Starbuck caught the gleam in his friend's eye. Sheba, too, was smiling. She walked over and leaned against the biobed, next to the lieutenant. Apollo was still standing in front of him, looking ready to burst with the contained excitement.  
  
Starbuck shifted on the edge of the bed and gazed from one to the other, perplexed. "What? What's going on? And does it have something to do with the reasons Beta Bay was restricted?"  
  
Apollo activated the compupad again and punched in a command. He then handed it back to the lieutenant. "Take a look," he said.  
  
Starbuck studied the small but clear image of the Earth probe. "What is it?" He asked quietly. He had an odd sensation, though, as he gazed at the picture. A feeling of familiarity. . . he did not understand it.  
  
"Starbuck," Apollo said, his face alight with enthusiasm, "this craft is from Earth!" He explained the details, from how the Fleet had picked up the weak signal to when they had finally been permitted to approach the probe.  
  
"Earth? It's from Earth?" Starbuck said in a whisper. He gazed at the small image on the compupad screen in amazement. "But how do you know it's from Earth?" he asked. He felt almost dizzy from the revelation. And puzzled; the strange feeling persisted.  
  
Apollo took the compupad and pulled up another picture to show him. "We found this plaque attached to the probe," he said. He and Sheba explained all they knew about the drawings on the plaque as Starbuck stared, wide-eyed at the image.  
  
"Apollo. . ." Starbuck gazed from one face to the other. "I know this is impossible, but . . . I've seen this plaque before." It suddenly came to him. Before the mountain journey, he had seen other visions, other places. They were a vague remembrance at the moment, except he clearly remembered now how it had all begun - he had been gazing at an image of this very plaque. . . "In a dream," he whispered.  
  
Apollo grasped Starbuck's shoulder and stared into his eyes. "Buddy, it wasn't a dream."  
  
"What do you mean?" Yet, Starbuck could sense the answer before the captain spoke again.  
  
"It was an. . . extraordinary experience outside of this dimension. . ." Apollo started hesitantly, feeling awkward as Starbuck stared at him, widening his eyes. He exhaled, looking around helplessly, trying to find other words. "And I understand it now . . . that, that other presence I felt . . ." Apollo said, almost as if talking to himself. He gazed into his friend's eyes. "You, me, Sheba . . . we were taken on a journey by the Ship of Lights' Beings to Earth," he said quietly. "We were there together, even though we seemed to be alone. I -- I could sense you both while I was there." Starbuck was staring intently at his friend. "Do you remember the ocean?"  
  
"Yes," Starbuck whispered. "I do. I'd forgotten. . ." He closed his eyes, the sights he had seen returning almost randomly to his thoughts. "Yes, the ocean, and mountains, and -- and -"  
  
"The Pyramids?" Apollo asked.  
  
"Yes! I remember them now!"  
  
Apollo explained what had happened when he had touched the plaque while examining the probe in the bay. He also described all that he remembered seeing before his consciousness returned to the Galactica.   
  
"The probe is a beacon, a gift," Sheba said, her face glowing, "from the Ship of Lights' Beings!"  
  
"And our journey to Earth . . . our 'dreams'. . .were another gift," Apollo said, "a way to inform us about Earth, I think." He gripped Starbuck's other shoulder in his excitement. "Starbuck, we've been to Earth!"  
  
The lieutenant put his hands on Apollo's wrists and gazed steadily at him. "I know. I remember now." He suddenly burst out laughing, feeling caught up by the sheer amazement of what the captain was telling him. "Now *that's* what I call being taken for a ride!"   
  
Apollo pulled back and spread his arms. "It was fantastic!"  
  
Still chuckling, Starbuck stared at his two friends, taking in the pure joy in their expressions, and he tried to comprehend what had truly happened. He had convinced himself that it had been a dream, despite the sensory messages to the contrary from his subconscious. Now, it all made sense. "I remember," he said in a whisper, closing his eyes, feeling the experience. "I remember now, almost as if I could touch them . . . the pyramids. . . Then I was back in the mountains, and I felt this -- this need to, to . . . climb, to follow this trail that was in front of me." Starbuck stopped because he felt his voice about to waver. Only a brief time ago, he had been in the grips of a waking nightmare, or so it had seemed, but now. . .The enormity of the truth was almost overwhelming.   
  
"It's as if, once you'd been brought to Earth," Sheba said, her voice full of wonder, "that the Beings let you stay there in respite until you had to wake up. Another gift . . .for you, Starbuck!" She lightly brushed a fallen strand from his forehead. His eyes were wide with wonder, his expression much different than the usual front he so often displayed. Sheba realized that she had only seen the lieutenant this open and revealing on one other occasion. . . aboard the Ship of Lights.   
  
"Oh, Lords, it was incredible!" Starbuck tried to describe his journey again, this time with the knowledge that it had been no dream. He spoke with an open, honest enthusiasm that mirrored that way both Apollo and Sheba felt, and he spoke with none of his usual conman's embellishments; he was still trying to reconcile the sudden turn of events that had taken him from what had seemed to be a waking nightmare, convinced that he had killed Reese, to the incredible knowledge that he had truly been to Earth. . . Earth. . .it had been *no* dream. "I wonder when we'll find it . . . find Earth?" He said as he finished. He felt numb, but a good kind of numb, this time, from the amazement at what he -- at what all three -- had experienced.  
  
Apollo sighed. "It may still be many, many yahrens before the Fleet finds Earth. Perhaps it won't even be our generation. But, at least, we know it's there." Without thinking, he hugged Sheba tightly. "We *know* it's there!"  
  
Starbuck broke into a laugh again.  
  
"What's so funny?" Apollo frowned at him.  
  
"You two!" he answered, smiling broadly.  
  
"What?"  
  
"It's just good to see that you've finally cut out the felgercarb and admitted that you love each other!" Starbuck grinned at his friends.  
  
"And we have *you* to thank, too." Apollo said, winking. He shook his head. "If you hadn't acted the way you did after that triad game - if we hadn't been at each others' throats that night - then Sheba and I . . ." He let his voice trail off and just smiled.  
  
Starbuck laughed again. "Well, then, maybe being confined to quarters will be worth it, knowing that --."  
  
"Starbuck," Sheba interrupted, her face suddenly serious. She grasped his hand and gazed into his eyes, wanting to get the words out before he retreated once more behind the humor and jokes. "Thank you," she said softly.  
  
Starbuck glanced at Apollo, then looked away. "Well, at least, someone here has to be brave and make commitments, don't they?"  
  
Apollo caught his friend's brief but pained look and knew who else was on his mind. Chameleon and Cassie. "Look," Apollo said, wrapping his hand around both Sheba's and Starbuck's, "we're committed. We're family. So is Father, Athena, Boomer, Tarnia, Copernicus and . . Chameleon. And so will be Cassie or the woman you'll someday choose . . ."   
  
Starbuck gazed down at their intertwined hands, both smiling and blinking back tears.  
  
"Family," Sheba said softly. "Fingers of the same hand, Starbuck."  
  
  
EPILOGUE  
  
The following secton was far from easy. Restricted to quarters for the first two days, and released only for meals and trips to the lifestation, Starbuck had once again been faced with the prospect of too much time to just sit and think. And with all privileges revoked for two sectons, he was not permitted visitors. Adama, however, did not have the heart to enforce that regulation, not in light of Chameleon's revelation. Instead, the man was granted a special pass to visit Starbuck in the billet. Two days of confinement became a time for father and son to get to know each other and to work through the tensions.  
  
Still, Starbuck had found himself shifting between extremes, at times, and confused about what he really felt at others. Time, Tarnia, assured him, would bring everything back into some kind of perspective. When he caught himself feeling pensive, though, Starbuck had not one, but two methods to combat the negative feelings. Depending on how he felt, sometimes he would pull out Copernicus's device, set the volume on high, and lose himself in the music. Other times, though, he preferred to just close his eyes and remember the peace, the all-encompassing serenity, that he had felt during his mountain journey. His visit to Earth. Earth. That thought alone could set his spirits flying high once more.  
  
On the third day, when he was finally permitted to return to light active duty, time had stood still for all, for this day marked the First Anniversary of the Great Destruction. As many as possible, including the Council of Twelve representatives, had gathered in Beta Bay to listen to the commander. Adama began the ceremonies with a beautiful oration, as only he could make, beginning at the precise time the Cylons had commenced their horrendous attacks on the Colonies and the Fleet.   
  
Then followed a solemn observance with twelve centons of silence, one for each of the worlds. A small group of survivors, representatives from each Colony, had slowly marched in with the flag of their world, while musicians played a medley composed of sections from each Colony's National Anthem. The bearers formed a crescent in front of the assembly, and a gong sounded to mark the beginning of the observance. The first flag, for Aquarius, lowered as the ripples of the tone faded into a sober silence. And thus it continued for twelve centons. The only sounds had been the quiet, aching sobs from many in the assemblage and the deep reverberation from the gong as time passed.   
  
As the twelfth centon had moved on into the thirteenth, however, the small symphony began playing the Aquarian National Anthem, softly, at first, then crescendoing to fill the bay with the vibrant and patriotic refrains. All who knew the words had sung, loudly, through tears and a swelling feeling of defiance aimed at their enemy. The physical world may have been shattered, but the people - their culture and spirit - would survive. While each anthem played, the bearers positioned their flag in a stand, then returned to the assemblage.  
  
As the strands of the final anthem had faded, Adama had looked out across the faces in the Galactica's Beta Bay and stared into the vidcam to reach out to all, across the Fleet. Turning, he had pointed to the containment wall that stood behind him and behind the row of flags. Slowly, he had explained how faint signals had led to the encounter with an alien probe. He then showed an image of the craft's plaque. Most did not need his explanation to know what the pictures and symbols meant; the clear picture of the man and woman, side by side, sent waves of shock and amazement throughout the Fleet. Humans, it had been built by humans.  
  
"I firmly believe," Adama said, then paused, as the containment walls were slowly pulled back to reveal the Earth craft, "that this probe is a beacon, a messenger, sent by divine powers to let us know that . . ." He paused again to stare at the unobtrusive vessel. "That we *will* find Earth. She is not a myth, but the true Promised Land of our forefathers, and she awaits her brothers and sisters from the stars. Yes, she's out there, right now, sending out probes to space and reaching out to the Children of Kobol."  
  
An excited, emotional wave passed through the gathered people. People embraced, some cheered, some cried, some stood hand in hand, praying. All stared in wonderment at the craft.  
  
Adama had choked back his own emotions to continue. "From death and destruction, today, we see hope give birth to a new tomorrow for us and the generations to come. This probe is the alliance between the old and the new worlds. This is the probe of the convenant that has come to hail our way back home." Adama raised his arms and his strong voice filled the bay. "Let us feast in honor of Earth's messenger, because I declare this day, until we land on Earth, to be celebrated from now on as 'The Day of Atonement,' and the Messenger to be forever remembered as the 'Ship of the Covenant.'!"  
  
********************   
Granted a one-day reprieve from his restrictions, Starbuck had been at the front of the gathered group in Beta Bay, surrounded by the other warriors, close friends, and two special people -- Tarnia and Copernicus. Copernicus had stood, hands over ears, staring without blinking, almost, at the containment wall, but seemed to listen intently to the commander. For both Starbuck and Copernicus, it was their first glimpse of the real probe, as the containment wall slowly retracted into the sides of the bay. Apollo noted how they both stared, enraptured, when the craft became clearly visible.   
  
After the commander concluded his oration, the crowd had slowly, slowly filed out of the landing bay to continue the planned festivities and other activities. Many had continued to stare at the probe, crowding close to the line of flags that stood before it. An awed reverence seemed to keep most from coming any closer, though. Eventually, only a small group remained -- Adama, Tigh, Apollo, Athena, Boomer, Cassiopeia, Chameleon, Starbuck, Tarnia, and Copernicus. Even security had been dismissed; the bay was quiet now. Copernicus lowered his hands from his ears and continued to stare at the probe.  
  
"Come on!" Apollo grabbed Starbuck by the arm and pulled him towards the craft. The others watched, but of the group, only Sheba, Boomer, and the commander, in addition to Apollo, knew that Starbuck had shared the vision of Earth. Only they knew how significant this event was for him, to finally see it. The Messenger, Apollo thought to himself, the Silver Bride sent for Covenant.  
  
"Wait!" The lieutenant had been watching Copernicus's reactions and recognized that he was fascinated, totally absorbed, by the craft. Apollo let go, and Starbuck approached the man, who was still gazing fixedly at the probe. "Copernicus?" he said, touching his shoulder and speaking clearly.  
  
For a long moment he did not move, but then he turned wide eyes to the Lieutenant.  
  
"Copernicus," Starbuck said, "come see the probe with me!" He motioned him forward.   
  
Apollo stood in front of the group as they watched the two walk slowly towards the Earth probe. Adama, Tigh, Boomer, and Athena watched in quiet amusement, all pleased to see the happiness, for a change, in the lieutenant's face. Tarnia, taking in the interaction, felt more joy than she had in a long, long time, as she watched Copernicus with a friend - a true friend. Chameleon also felt a new and most welcome sensation - pride, pride and love, as he watched his son. His son. . . he mused. Cassie, standing next to Chameleon, felt a sharp pang as she noted the ease with which Starbuck and Copernicus interacted, the bond that clearly existed now, a deep connection . . .   
  
When he was within arm's reach of the probe, Copernicus stopped and continued to just gaze at it. Starbuck walked around, running his hand along the edge of the broad dish until it sloped up and out of reach. The lieutenant was studying it, trying to observe every detail. When he got to the plaque, he stopped. Apollo and Sheba had described it, but it was still a shock to see the human images gazing back at him. "Lords of Kobol . . ." Starbuck felt overwhelmed. He stared at the illustrations. Then he heard a voice.  
  
"Pioneer."  
  
"What?" Starbuck jumped. He had been so absorbed by the plaque that Copernicus had come up beside him unnoticed. "What did you say?" the lieutenant asked.  
  
"Pioneer," Copernicus repeated. He had his head tilted and he was gazing from the corner of his eye at the pictures. "Name. It's name. Pioneer 10."  
  
Starbuck blinked. "How could you possibly know that?" he asked.  
  
Copernicus did not respond; he was too focused on the plaque to listen or to answer. He stared at the illustrations, moving his head slowly from side to side, then back and forth, fascinated. Slowly, slowly, he reached out a tentative hand, pulling back hesitantly before finally touching the picture of the probe that was drawn behind the two humans.   
  
All at once, he stiffened. He jerked slightly, then relaxed. He stared transfixed, immobile.   
  
The others had been gradually approaching, observing, talking quietly among themselves. Almost simultaneously, they noticed Copernicus's reaction and stopped. Adama and Athena immediately recognized the trance that seemed to hold Copernicus. "Look, Father!" Athena pointed at the man with one hand and grabbed the commander's arm with the other.   
  
Copernicus stood staring straight ahead.  
  
Boomer and Tigh took a moment longer to realize what was happening. "I don't believe it. . ." Tigh whispered, shaking his head as if to clear his vision. "It's happening again, isn't it?"  
  
"Yes. . ." Boomer whispered in awe, gazing at Copernicus's face, expressionless except for his wide-open eyes. His eyes seemed to radiate a depth.  
  
Chameleon and Cassie did not understand what was happening. Cassie stopped and inhaled sharply. "What in Hades is going on?" She wondered if he were having a seizure and was about to rush forward. But it did not look like a typical seizure. She felt baffled.  
  
Tarnia felt her heart leap in concern and moved quickly to aid her friend, but Apollo grasped her arm and pulled her back gently but firmly. "Wait. He's okay!" Apollo and Sheba had known instantly what was going on. Instinctively. They just knew. They motioned for Chameleon and Cassie to approach. "He's okay," Apollo repeated. "Please trust me!" His ardent gaze eased Tarnia's tension a little. She stopped, Cassie and Chameleon beside her, to watch.   
  
Apollo and Sheba walked over to Starbuck. "What'd he say?" the captain whispered.  
  
"He said," Starbuck gave his friends an incredulous look, "that it's name is Pioneer 10. . ."  
  
  
"Pioneer 10," Copernicus stated again in a loud voice. The others stared. "Launched in the early 1970's --Anno Domini, Earth's time line," Copernicus continued, his voice strong and pedantic. "Pioneer 10 and 11 were the first spacecraft to travel through their system's asteroid belt, first to fly by the planets named Jupiter and Saturn, and the first human artifacts to venture beyond their solar system."  
  
Apollo, Sheba, and Starbuck exchanged glances. Everyone shuddered. They all - Adama, Boomer, Tigh, Athena, and even Cassie, Chameleon, and Tarnia - knew that they were witnessing an extraordinary phenomenon.  
Tigh struggled with his disbelief. "What? Does he believe that he's a Caprican psychometrist or a Scorpian object reader?" he whispered to Boomer. "It seems he was overly impressed by the ceremonies and all the mystic stuff he heard today. Now he's channeling all the books he's read..." Even the colonel, though, did not believe his own words. Copernicus's eyes were too open, to revealing . . .   
Athena and Boomer frowned at Tigh's skepticism, but kept their eyes fixed on Copernicus as a wave of elation washed through them. Athena looked at Starbuck for a moment and their gazed locked briefly. His eyes mirrored the excitement and awe that she was feeling.  
"Apollo!" Sheba whispered, gripping Apollo's arm. "for Plato's sake, he's in contact with..."   
Apollo nodded, smiling and looking upwards as if to an invisible presence above. "Yes, he knows their language. He speaks The Prophet's Tongue..."  
  
Adama was wide-eyed. "The Ship of Lights' Beings . . ."  
  
*********************************  
  
That had been three days ago. Starbuck remembered Tarnia's worried, then incredulous reaction when she saw what had happened with Copernicus. When the connection had been broken, Copernicus had turned to her and had exclaimed in a loud, joyful voice, "Earth!"  
  
It had taken several centars, after retiring to the commander's office, to explain to Cassie, Tarnia and Chameleon what had happened with Copernicus when he had touched the probe. It had been difficult, at first, for Tarnia and Chameleon because they were the only two who had no knowledge of the experiences Apollo, Starbuck, and Sheba had had with the Ship of Lights' Beings after the deadly encounter with Count Iblis. However, as they listened and learned, they understood. For Tarnia, especially, the knowledge gained from Apollo, Starbuck, and Sheba finally clarified some strange events that had happened with Copernicus in the past.   
  
In addition, the discussion spawned an even greater understanding for everyone. As they talked, Apollo, Sheba, and Starbuck discovered that they remembered more and more about what had actually happened both on the red planet and aboard the alien ship. For Apollo and Sheba, memories that had been vague, even after their night of revelation, were now much clearer.   
  
For Starbuck, who could finally remember the events aboard the Ship of Lights, it brought a great relief - a relief from a stress of which he had not even been consciously aware. He had known all along, had felt the truth, but could never get past the nebulous blockage of his memory. Perhaps the Beings had suppressed the reality to protect them, but as he reflected on it now, he was convinced that those obscured visions - present but just beyond his grasp -- had only added to his recent mental confusion.   
  
And that confusion remained, but he also, finally, believed that he would gradually, over time, bit by bit, make some sense out of it all.  
  
At one point, Apollo and Sheba had been describing the moment aboard the Ship of Lights when Apollo had been brought back to life and had been trying to express the incredible depth of feeling evoked. As Starbuck listened to his friends speak, remembering vividly the intensity of the emotions, as well, Starbuck had glanced at Chameleon and Cassiopeia. He caught the medtech staring at him, before she looked away. In that brief instant, though, he saw the hurt in her eyes and felt a flash of comprehension. She understood his confusion and pain, accepted it, and was willing to accept whatever choice he might make. She *would* allow him the freedom and time to decide, to understand his true feelings. While those feelings for her were still too confused to understand, one emotion did warm his heart. Gratitude. She truly did offer her love without conditions, and for that he was grateful.   
  
Copernicus, Chameleon, Cassie, Sheba, Apollo. . . so many paradoxes.  
  
Destruction giving birth to hope. For Apollo, from his actual death and rebirth had come the final burial of Serina's memory and the budding love of Sheba. Starbuck saw and felt the contradiction: To know that his own collapse - the hurtful words and out-of-control behavior - had allowed his dearest, closest friend to break those final barriers and consummate a true love.   
  
Not only that, but he could not help but be astonished at the paradox of his relationship with Copernicus; how the man for whom the physical world was chaotic and painful had helped to pull Starbuck out of his own inner turmoil. And he had taught him how much could be gained from simply following one's true feelings. The man was incapable of complex emotional masquerades; Starbuck was the master. Yet, the lieutenant felt a deep gratitude to him. It was Copenicus's simplicity that allowed him to see straight through the felgercarb. Starbuck reflected that he knew of few other people who were as content as Copernicus to just live and deal with life as it came -- without the complicated social and emotional games.  
  
Starbuck also saw the tangled web of contrasting emotions surrounding both Cassie and Chameleon. Love and hate, trust and betrayal. Would he gain a father but lose faith in the one he had thought he loved? It was too soon to know . . .  
  
But more than anything, Starbuck was amazed at how the greatest gift had come at his darkest moment. Nightmare seemingly turned to reality, but not, while what could only - in his rational mind - be a dream proved to be real. It highlighted in a spectacular way the simple lesson he had gained; he could only control his fate, or, at least, his reactions to his fate, by allowing himself to let go, to trust in himself, to have the faith that he could survive and go on.   
  
Paradoxes.  
  
The most astonishing revelation, though, came bit by bit from Copernicus. He had shared the trio's vision of Earth, and more. And he had shared contact with the Ship of Lights' Beings during Count Iblis' time within the Fleet. Tarnia was finally able to explain odd moments, during that period, when he had seemed to withdraw, then later stare at her with a penetrating gaze as he quoted what had sounded like mystical gibberish, at the time. His mind, it seemed, was an open receptacle for their benefactors. Ironically, they would probably never know all that he had experienced because it far surpassed his verbal abilities.  
  
At the end, Adama had reluctantly had to end the discussions to return to duty. But, as he had gazed around his office at those gathered before him, Tarnia, Copernicus, Cassiopeia, Chameleon, Boomer, Tigh, Athena, Starbuck, and Apollo, he had promised a proper celebration for the near future. Everyone here, he promised, must attend, everyone. They were all bound by extraordinary events that wove in and around them all, from the wondrous intervention of the Ship of Lights' Beings to the simple but deep bond between Starbuck and Copernicus. They were family. All of them.   
  
  
  
******************  
  
Starbuck gazed out of the Galactica's main viewport, remembering that amazing day. And he felt, for the first time in a long, long while, content. At peace. Officially, he was supposed to be dictating a report for Adama, but he had taken a break because he knew Apollo's patrol was due to return soon. One more secton on restriction, Starbuck reflected, then life might actually be back to normal, such as 'normal' was. But compared to the previous few sectons, he could hardly wait. One more day, even, and he was cleared to fly his first patrol. Starbuck felt as restless as a graduating cadet.  
  
Athena, monitoring communications, interrupted the lieutenant's thoughts. "Commander," she called to her father, who was talking to Omega over at the command console, "there's a message for you from the Prison Barge."  
  
Adama raised an eyebrow. "Patch it through here," he said.  
  
Starbuck watched absently, as the commander listen to the communique through his headset, but his mind was still engrossed with the events from what was now called Day of Atonement. He did not notice Adama frowning in his direction.  
  
"Understood," Adama said into his audiophone, "I'll pass on the message, but I make no promises. Adama out." He looked over to where Starbuck was once again lost in his thoughts as he gazed out the viewport. "Lieutenant," he said.  
  
Starbuck turned, expecting the commander to send him back to making his report.  
  
"I need to speak with you in my office."  
  
Starbuck raised an eyebrow, but followed Adama off the bridge. When the door had slid shut behind them, the commander turned to face him, hands behind his back, face serious. "Okay," Starbuck said, getting an uneasy feeling, "what's up?"  
  
"I have some news for you. And a request. You are free to decline, of course. The decision is yours."  
  
"What's this request?" Starbuck asked, puzzled.  
  
Adama let out a long breath. "That was the captain of the Prison Barge. He wanted to inform me that Sherok is being released -"  
  
"What?" Starbuck felt like the wind had been knocked from his lungs. Images flashed through his mind of the bearded man, eyes filled with a crazed coldness as he leveled the laser at the lieutenant's head, calmly ready to kill both him and the deluded followers. "Released?"  
  
"Yes," Adama said quietly. "The doctors have verified that he is now under the proper medication and is not a threat. They have no reason to hold him. They plan to return him to the Sagittarius. He will be closely monitored, though, to be sure he continues to receive the appropriate treatment and medications."  
  
"So what's the request?" Starbuck asked, not sure that he wanted to know.  
  
"Sherok has asked to speak to you," Adama answered. "He wants to apologize."  
  
Starbuck remained silent for several moments, staring at the floor, pondering these new events. Finally he looked up. "I'll go," he said.  
  
"You're sure?" Adama asked, studying the lieutenant intently. "You don't have to."  
  
"No, I want to," Starbuck said, and he meant it. "I want to hear what he has to say."  
  
"All right, then." Adama was still frowning, still concerned, but he accepted the lieutenant's decision. "I'll inform the officials to expect you later today."  
  
******************  
  
Being under medical supervision, Sherok had been kept separate from the other prisoners. His 'cell' was actually a small, adequately furnished room in the back of the infirmary wing of the ship. The man's doctor greeted Starbuck with a smile and a handshake when the lieutenant arrived, stepping hesitantly through the infirmary door.  
  
"This way, this way!" The doctor said, motioning for Starbuck to follow him. Apparently, he must have recognized him and was not going to bother with introductions. Starbuck, ignoring the dryness in his mouth and the tenseness in his stomach, forced a smile and followed behind the quick-paced physician. In no time, they had stopped in front of a door. "It's okay. Go on in. He's expecting you," the doctor said, as if he were about to visit a close friend, not someone who had tried to -- and almost succeed at -- killing him.  
  
"Thanks." Starbuck kept the smile in place. He hesitated, took in a long, deep breath, then activated the door mechanism. The door swooshed open. Starbuck strolled inside. And stopped. The door slid closed behind him.  
  
"I'm. . . thank you for coming, Lieutenant."  
  
  
Starbuck let out the breath and gave a genuine smile. Sherok sat at a table. He was clean shaven and his hair was short and neatly combed. His face reflected anxiety and uncertainty -- the same feelings that had plagued Starbuck throughout the shuttle ride to the Prison Barge. Starbuck was suddenly happy that he had come. Pulling out another chair, he sat down, facing Sherok. "Hello," he said, still smiling, "I'm glad you're feeling better."  
  
THE END  
  
  



End file.
